


The Re-Education of Connor (Kenway)

by Evesi



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Anal Sex, Assassin's Creed III, Blow Jobs, Character Death, Eventual (very eventual) Master/slave relationship, Finally!!, Fingerfucking, Groping, Hand Jobs, Haytham is the worst teacher, Incest, Kink Meme, Light Bondage, M/M, Masturbation, More tags and warnings to come with additional chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-05-08
Packaged: 2017-11-25 05:15:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 42,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/635493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evesi/pseuds/Evesi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are many ways to tame a beast, but to truly become its master, one has to choose the best method to bring it to heel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day Zero

**Author's Note:**

> An on-going effort to fill the following prompt on the AssCreed kink meme: _I really, really want some sort of Haytham/Connor smut where the two of them are in some sort of master/slave relationship. Maybe Haytham and the Templars win and Connor is Haytham's prize? Maybe some sort of AU with a master/slave dynamic? Up to you WriterAnon!_
> 
>  _My only request is that there be no non-con, that's really not this anon's kink. Dub-con is fine though. :)_  
> 
> _I'll just go lie down in the corner now..._
> 
>  
> 
> Hee! This fic is now also being translated into Chinese! You can find that over [here](http://blog.sina.com.cn/s/blog_b09c09900101acfb.html) for your reading pleasure. 8Db And look! Now you can even read it in [Korean](http://hacogom.dothome.co.kr/bbs/zboard.php?category=6&id=Translation&page=1&page_num=10&sn=off&ss=on&sc=on&keyword=&select_arrange=headnum&desc=asc)! Ahhh, I am most honored to have people doing this!

The boy had no sense-- _none_ whatsoever. Ordering ships to fire upon the very fort he was going to be infiltrating? Haytham had, in his time, done some rather reckless and downright dangerous things, but even he drew the line somewhere. Connor, apparently, did not know when to draw it or couldn’t be bothered.

Breathing heavy and arm aching, he stared down at the boy who had caused him so much trouble over the years and ruined so many of his best-laid plans. Oh, there was some strange sense of admiration there, some pride, but Haytham could not suppress the overwhelming feelings of anger--anger that this individual, his own flesh and blood, could not see the sense and logic of the Templar way.

The sheer _stubbornness_ of the Assassin was beyond frustrating. If he only had another chance, he would have sought to break it--with force, as words had done little to convey the importance of his lessons thus far--and that was the last thought Haytham Kenway had as the world went black.


	2. Day Five

Haytham awakened with a throbbing headache, and the light-- _the blasted light_ \--was in his eyes and far too bright. He instinctively rolled away from whatever the source was, shielding his face with his hand, groaning quietly as the pain in his skull spiked.

“At last, you return to us,” a voice said, coming vaguely from the direction he had just turned away from. Footsteps were quick to follow, and to Haytham’s great relief, a shadow came to hover over him, shielding him from the infernal daylight. Maybe he should have worried for his safety, but at this moment in time, Haytham simply couldn’t rally the energy or care to do so. The man’s tone then took a sharper edge to it, bordering on anger. “You should have come with me.”

“Hah.” So it was Charles. Given his state of being, Haytham doubted that he could put up a fight even if forced, but it seemed that he was safe, at least for the time being. “You are a fool for returning for me.”

“You are still the Grand Master of these colonies. I could not have--”

“Charles,” he said, cutting the man off with a weak wave of the hand. “Consider yourself blessed that you did not run into any trouble en route. You retain the amulet, do you not?”

There was a brief pause, as if Charles was not entirely happy to be reprimanded, but the moment passed. A quiet sigh filled the space between them. “Would you like me to return it to you?”

Again, Haytham gestured with his hand. “No. Keep it.” The trinket held nothing but bad memories for him now.

“Shall I let you rest then? You took quite a shock from the shelling.”

Resting some more (preferably with the light _out of his eyes_ ) sounded like an excellent idea, but there was something Haytham needed to know before he slept once more: “The boy. Is he dead?”

There was a slight sniff, like some displeasurable scent had filled the air, and Haytham already knew the answer; his lips quirked in a grim smile. Of course, how could he even think of this as a legitimate question? His son wouldn’t die from something as harmless as _cannon fire_.

“He rests in the room down the hall,” came to the curt reply. “I had thought to finish him for you, but...”

But Haytham was still the Grand Master, and ultimately, it was his call. “You have done well, Charles,” he murmured, sleep already seeping back into his voice. “I shall resolve the matter myself when I am well again.”

“If you insist, Haytham.”

“I do.” His lips quirked. “Watch the boy for me until then.”

He didn’t have to see Charles’ face to imagine the look there. Babysitting duty for the general--no task could be more suiting for the man. None whatsoever.


	3. Day Twelve

The wooden floor was cool and comfortable beneath his feet as he stood beside the window, gazing down at the street below. Men and women continued to mill about, busying themselves with whatever droll activities they had set out to complete; the war, it felt like, had not touched his little corner of the world--peace and order still reigned. This quiet (and the resultant rest) had aided in his healing, and while he still bore the bandages and pains of a man injured in battle, Haytham had found his feet once again.

The house was near silent, save for the distant sound of lunch being made in the kitchens, but after spending several days doing nothing but conversing with Lee regarding their next plan of action, the peace and quiet was quite welcome. That said, though, when it came to a certain room at his residence, Haytham could not help but wonder if the lack of noise was welcome or not: down the hall where Connor was currently staying.

The maid insisted that the boy was well-behaved and docile, but Haytham could not bring himself to believe that--could not believe him to be doing anything but biding his time, despite reports from Charles that spoke of the same behavior. Theirs was an estranged relationship, but he knew his son well enough: he would not be tamed so easily.

Now that he could walk without feeling winded, Haytham believed it high time to see with his own eyes what state that child was in.

“The years have not treated you kindly, old man. You do not bear your wounds well,” was the greeting he received as he stepped inside. The room was dark, the curtains drawn. Connor was seated on the bed, elbows on his knees, and while he seemed to be quite at ease with himself, there was a certain danger to the angles his body made--a coiled power just waiting to be sprung. Unarmed he might be, but Haytham knew all too well that the boy didn’t need anything but his fists to kill a man.

Like father, like son, hm?

“I trust that my servants have treated you fairly?” he asked, ignoring his son’s comment. Connor would be fortunate to be as fit as he (or alive, for that matter) at his age, given the trouble the boy seemed to get into. His son didn’t seem to understand his own mortality and its implications. Didn’t he understanding that his ideals and goals would die with him? That his precious Brotherhood was still being rebuilt and could be so easily crushed without its leader? One only needed to look at Achilles and his downfall to see and understand this, but then again, Connor never seemed to reflect well on lessons of the past--not with his father at least.

“Why do you not kill me? Is your curiosity still not sated?”

Haytham sighed; he hadn’t expected the boy to answer his query in any case. The question his son asked mirrored one Charles had posed not two days ago. The original plan involved wringing the last shreds of information from Connor and then getting rid of him (for good, this time), but Haytham found himself unwilling, especially since he now had an opportunity to mold him to _his_ purposes.

Charles had argued that bringing the boy to their side would be impossible, citing their previous efforts as evidence of this. Haytham, however, was not convinced. Before, there had been too many outside influences: Connor had had too much freedom. Besides, their interactions had been touch-and-go at best; father and son had no time alone, no time to... bond.

“I’ve yet to cure you of your ignorance. It is my... _duty_ , as your father. A man cannot let his child roam the streets empty-headed and delusional.”

“Do you think I will linger to listen to your lies? You cannot confine me here.”

Connor stood then and crossed the room to stand before him, teeth bared in a snarl. His steps, Haytham noted, were like his; the grace and agility he remembered were decidedly absent, the footfalls heavy. For all his talk about his age showing, it seemed like he wasn’t the only one still suffering from his wounds. Haytham lifted his chin and stared the boy down.

“And if I threaten you?”

“I do not fear you, nor what you can do to me.”

“But do you fear what I can do to others?” He let that sink in for a moment, waited to see that brief flicker of worry in Connor’s eyes, before pressing onwards. “I still live. _Charles_ still lives.”

Disgraced and cast out, his power and influence were not what they once were, but they both knew that there was a good reason why Connor wanted him dead: with the right connections and the application of good will, Charles could still return to his former glory and complete his good work.

“The Brotherhood--”

“--Does not know where you are,” Haytham interjected. He pressed a hand to Connor’s chest and pushed, lips pressing into a thin smile when the boy conceded a backward step. “You are alone. Do not think lightly of me and my threats, Connor.

“You have weakened us, yes, but are you so naive to think the Templar influence gone?” Indeed, all he had to do was wait--wait for the chance to promote a pawn and reclaim his pieces. He would have new rooks, knights, and bishops at his beck and call. Indeed, it was too early to call this match done. “I told you before: we do not need a creed to exist. Humanity’s natural inclination is toward order.”


	4. Day Twenty-Four

The lessons in philosophy and history, in language and culture, had started, even if the Assassin proved to be an unruly and unwilling student, but still, they were necessary for the boy to become a _proper_ Templar. Hour after hour, they would work, and whenever Connor looked ready to protest, Haytham would remind him of the Homestead, of his recruits, of the dispersed remains of his village. How was Prudence’s boy? His name was Hunter, was it not? And that female Assassin in his ranks? Was she well? What of the clan mother? Surely she was an old woman now-- _fragile_. Ah, but that was foolish of him to ask; Connor wouldn’t-- _couldn’t_ \--know...

These were scare tactics, but for now, all he had to do was bluff. The Templar network would slowly recover, and one day, Haytham _would_ have the power to exert influence on the lives of these individuals. For now, though, all he could do was obtain _just_ enough information to frighten the boy, make him worry and fret.

Having to use such crude methods of getting the boy to listen became something that occurred prior to every lesson, and after a while, Haytham grew tired of it. The re-education of Connor, he decided, had to start from the outside; his previous approach had been all wrong. The opportunity to directly influence what went on in the boy’s head was long gone, so instead, he would work his way from the outside in--starting with his appearance.

“Off. Take it off.”

“No,” Connor all but growled, low and not unlike an animal. Haytham sighed and rolled his eyes; trust the child to be troublesome regardless of what he asked of him. “You have already taken away my weapons. What does it matter what I wear?”

“You are a guest in my home. You will do as I say,” he snapped. Haytham strode toward his son, eyes sliding from the top of his head and down to his toes. It wasn’t that the boy’s outfit was all that offensive; after all, he’d fit in... _relatively_ well with the colonists up until this point. No, this was more a matter of controlling Connor and shaping him; that Assassin robe had to go--the symbolism behind it far too harmful now. Besides, the thing was fast going to become tatty if Connor insisted on wearing _that_ and nothing else.

“Allow me to leave, and I will no longer intrude upon your hospitality.”

“Not an option, Connor,” Haytham said as he grabbed at the lapels of the coat and roughly shoved at them, forcing the fabric over his son’s shoulders. For a moment, it looked as if Connor was going to lash out, but as luck would have it, his arms caught in his sleeves; Haytham smiled, vicious. Such a fix would not hold him for long, but it was just enough time for him to start picking at the buttons of his white waistcoat.

“You will dress as I ask.”

The boy cursed him in his native tongue, and Haytham arched an eyebrow.

“And you will speak to me as I see fit.” He tugged, and the remainder of the buttons popped off, rolling across the floor. Haytham shoved the waistcoat open, and as Connor was now actively struggling to get his coat off, he picked up his pace, hooking his index finger into the top of his son’s shirt and pressing down. More buttons hit the ground, and it was with some satisfaction that Haytham noted that even if he couldn’t keep the boy in the outfits he’d picked out, his current wear would likely be unusable at this point.

What happened next, though, was... most curious.

Haytham pressed his hands against Connor’s bare chest to push the shirt off his shoulders, and the boy made a very interesting sound--a strangled moan is what he would call it. It gave him pause and made his eyebrows lift. His son seemed to realize what had just happened, and he snarled, eyes flashing like a cornered beast. “Remove your hands, _father_.”

Oh, but how could he? Haytham found this to be an excellent discovery, and to torment Connor all the more, he dragged his nails lightly against his skin, teased a nipple. While this had not been his original intention, Haytham was not unlearned in methods of breaking a man through... less conventional means. If he had an advantage, he was certainly going to use it to its fullest extent. “Have you genuinely never used your body like this before?”

“That--” _Ah._ The boy’s breath hitched. “--is none of your concern.”

“But isn’t it? I _am_ your father, for better or for worse.”

This sort of sensitivity could surely only be achieved by one who’d never been touched before. Filing away that little tidbit of information, Haytham removed his hands and folded them behind his back; the smug smile he wore didn’t move an inch though. “I will ask you once more: get rid of this horrible outfit.

“The maid has prepared a number of other ones for you in the wardrobe.”

Connor seemed to regain some of his senses when he did not have warm hands pressed against his skin, and he huffed, face twisting into an angry expression. At last, he worked the sleeves of his coat off his arms; the robe fell to the ground with a soft thump. “And if I do not?”

“If you do not?” Haytham seemed to consider this for a moment, taking an idle step away from his son, before rounding quite suddenly on him, stepping right into his space. His hand swung low and grabbed at his groin-- _squeezed_ ; Connor whined, teeth grit. He leaned in close, his breath hot against the boy’s ear. “Are you so sure you wish to find out?

“Don’t make me repeat myself any more than you have. _Get dressed,_ ” he muttered before stepping back and away from the boy. Haytham gave his son one last disapproving look before exiting the room, a warm shiver running down his spine.


	5. Day Thirty-Three

Haytham had expected the boy to protest in some form or fashion. Nothing came easily between the two of them; everything had to be achieved after fighting tooth and nail. Oh, Connor had come down to the dining room for breakfast properly dressed, but he didn’t look at Haytham or speak a word to him for the remainder of the day. Their lessons that morning (and long into the night) were deathly silent and rather one-sided, but Haytham still considered it a victory.

After all, his son _had_ put on the clothes he’d asked him to.

Connor cleaned up well, but Haytham wasn’t exactly surprised by this. He’d seen the boy dressed up like a proper gentleman aboard the _Aquila_ , and while he’d put him into a pair of stockings and buckled shoes instead of boots, he still cut a fine image--taking after his father in that regard, if he was allowed a moment of self-satisfaction.

The silent treatment continued for some time more, but Haytham enjoyed the sound of his own voice enough to put up with it. He lectured Connor on the past, and it amused him to watch the emotions play across the boy’s face. It was all too easy to see that he _wanted_ to protest the telling of these historical accounts (no doubt to cite the Assassin version of events), but to do so was to stop rebelling in another way. Conflict was building behind the child’s eyes, and Haytham continued to wait, continued to needle him.

Until today, that is.

Today, Haytham had been speaking about the failings of Achilles and the fall of the American chapter of the Brotherhood. He’d been saving this lesson for quite some time, allowing the tension to build between them, until he knew that Connor was close to his breaking point. He was just getting to the bit about the man’s family when the boy slammed his fists down onto the table, snarling.

“Do not think yourself a better man than him, Haytham,” he growled, eyes flashing. The corner of Haytham’s lips quirked, and he set down the paper he’d been reading off of. “He was better than you could ever be. A better father.”

That stung--perhaps a _touch_ more than Haytham thought should have been possible, but he brushed it off all the same. (After all, there’d be little point to losing _his_ cool when the point was to make Connor crack and make him lose his focus.) “He left this world with only one disciple--a lousy one at that.

“How many men do you think I have brought over to the Templar cause, boy? Your opinion on such matters is hardly worth my interest,” he said, idly smoothing the page down against the table. “Davenport was a failure. Reconcile with that fact and continue with your life. You’ll be better for it.”

He made no comment on the topic of fatherhood.

With a clatter (the bottle of ink rolled across the table) and several loud thuds (down went the books), Connor rose from his seat and made a grab at Haytham, closing his fingers around his collar. The boy pulled him close--close enough that their breaths intermingled--and he simply raised his eyebrows, waiting for what he hoped would be a slow but sure realization; this was the moment he had been waiting for and working toward all this time.

It took a moment (Haytham chalked it up to anger), but Connor finally noticed their close proximity. He watched another sort of emotion flicker across the boy’s face before he tried to rally behind his temper once more. Haytham had seen that moment of hesitation, though, and that was all he needed to know to confirm his suspicions from the other day: his son didn’t know how to react to such closeness and intimacy.

Lifting an ink-smeared hand, he touched his fingers against the inside of the boy’s wrist, the gesture oddly gentle. He stroked, feeling the pulse beneath his skin; it was strong and steady, pleasant and reassuring in its own way. To anyone else, it would have probably seemed like a curious touch, but he wondered what Connor would make of it. The last time he’d put his hands on the Assassin, Haytham had been far from subtle, but what of this time? Would such a gesture still garner the same results?

Haytham would not have to wait long for an answer, as the boy was quick to withdraw his hand, almost as if burned. Connor still acted like a cornered animal, but it was becoming very clear that he had no idea how to respond to a touch that wasn’t intended to hurt, kill, or maim. Pleasure was not in his body’s repertoire, apparently, and gentle touches and caresses seemed to startle him or cause him to lash out in anger to hide his confusion--as he was doing now.

Making it a point to knock over another stack of books as he left, Connor stormed off, disregarding the ink smeared across his wrist and dirtying the cuff of his sleeve. Haytham looked on in silence, completely ignoring the mess surrounding him for the time being. So it was not only bold grabs and sweeps of the hand that could move his son; subtle gestures could, apparently, work just as well.

How well could he tame the boy with touch alone? Haytham would have to test this and test it soon.


	6. Day Thirty-Seven

The lessons he put Connor through, up until this point, had all been done in hopes of making the boy understand and come to appreciate the Templar cause. The matter of appearance had been an exercise in exerting his power over his son--a key matter to take care of if this plan was to be a success. Haytham’s decision that the boy needed to learn how to _dance_ , though, was something altogether different.

_This_ was being done out of pure self-interest.

There hadn’t really been a need to involve other individuals in this, but Haytham had enlisted the help of Mrs. Langley, the maid, all the same. She’d taken quite a shine to the boy after nursing him back to health, always twittering about him when she was in his presence. Mrs. Langley was not exactly the _best_ choice for a dance partner, seeing as Haytham rather doubted she attended balls and galas all that often, but he could use her fondness for his son to his advantage. Connor wouldn’t dare lash out in her presence, or so he liked to think.

And the boy didn’t, even if the scowl he wore was deep. Haytham had not tried to be subtle about how unrelated this matter was to the Order, but it amused him all the same to see Connor standing uncomfortably in the music room with Mrs. Langley by his side. It had taken some effort to convince him to come and _stay_ for the duration of the lesson, but a well-placed letter of correspondence with a few choice words about activity at the Homestead was, thankfully, enough to get Connor to do as he asked.

Admittedly, the boy did end up calling him a few foul names and muttered darkly about how often Haytham resorted to blackmail, but it just made him smile, smug and self-sure.

“ _Dancing_ is not a skill I require,” Connor commented, as if talking would get him out of this little mess. Haytham simply shook his head and beckoned to the pianist who had just arrived to take a seat. They shared a few quiet words, and then he turned, leaning lazily against the piano.

“For all your natural grace, you lack finesse,” he said, blandly. “Dancing will improve your footwork.” His smile was the very picture of arrogance--mocking. “You should be thanking me for paying such close attention to your training and devoting such time, energy, and resources to bettering you, boy.” Striding toward his son and maid, he grabbed the former by the arm, fingers closing a little tighter when Connor seemed to show no reaction.

That was the first result of this exercise, and Haytham made a mental note of it as Connor frowned at him and yanked his arm out of his grasp. Again, he reached for his son, this time allowing his hand to settle firmly on his shoulder, pushing him into the proper starting position; once more, Connor did not flinch.

“You will be learning the minuet with Mrs. Langley,” he commented as he cued the pianist to begin playing a simple, repeating tune. Haytham circled behind the pair, and the boy tried to follow him with his gaze, untrusting of what his father was up to. Of course, all this did was give him the excuse of stepping into his space, touching his hand to the boy’s neck, tilting that head back into the right position. “Face forward now.”

Ah, _there_ was the reaction he’d hoped for: Connor shivered a little before batting away his fingers. Haytham was quick to again correct his son, this time taking his hand and holding it quite still. “It’s too early to separate from your partner.”

“Come now, Master Connor,” Mrs. Langley said, offering her hand toward the boy. She smiled at his son, and when his fingers were laced between hers, she moved forward with the minuet step. At her side, the boy shuffled--yes, _shuffled_ \--awkwardly, eyes dipping down toward the ground to watch her movements; it was rather unbecoming and the perfect reason for Haytham to intervene again.

“Tut, tut.” He came to his son’s side, pressing his palm into the small of the boy’s back. “Demi-coupee and flouret. Demi-coupee and flouret.” Haytham repeated the steps a few more times, being quite sure to keep Connor at his side and mimicking his actions, albeit rather poorly. When he eventually drew away, he dragged his hand heavily around the boy’s waist, and he relished the look of discomfort that crossed Connor’s features.

Still, the boy persisted, allowing Mrs. Langley to lead him back and forth across their makeshift dance floor. Haytham, for his part, would slip in beside the dancers on occasion, dropping carefully placed touches here and there across Connor’s body--all to correct him, of course--and whenever he squirmed or threatened to act out on his growing irritation, the maid was quick to render any negativity moot; Mrs. Langley filled her role marvelously and without even realizing it, always diffusing the situation with a lovingly asked question or look of concern.

Connor was too kind to lash out at an innocent bystander, and Haytham reaped the benefits.

By the end of the practice session, his son’s footwork had not improved in the slightest. In fact, one could argue that it had gotten even worse, what with all of Haytham’s meddling: a gentle push at his belly for improper posture, a brief slide along his thigh to correct his stance, and a slow drag along his spine to keep him in time with the music. Connor was a flustered mess and careful to give his father a wide berth as he excused himself from the room at the end of the lesson; Haytham was quick to note the color high in the boy’s cheeks.

All in all, he had to consider the day’s exercise a resounding success. Without even removing a single article of clothing, Haytham had managed to produce a rough map of where and how Connor enjoyed being touched, but he was, as of yet, undecided regarding whether or not to apply this knowledge as punishment or as a reward where the boy was concerned.

The coming days would likely determine that, and it was with a faint smile of satisfaction that he accepted Mrs. Langley’s request for a dance with him before the pianist retired for the evening. Considering all that she had done for him today, Haytham was hard pressed to refuse.


	7. Day Forty-Six

Following the dance lesson, Haytham made it a point to avoid touching Connor, pretending like nothing had transpired between them. Admittedly, his son was very careful to always be just out of arm’s reach for several days after, so this was not an especially difficult feat to accomplish. Haytham would tease his son, allowing his hand to drift close to his body while they worked, but then he’d always pause to grab a paper, a quill, or a bottle of ink.

Connor would no longer flinch, but the warning look in his eyes was enough amusement for him.

Really, spending time with the boy was becoming much less of a chore for him than it had been previously. Connor was much quieter and agreeable to his teachings now, and while they certainly did not _agree_ on everything, Haytham ceased having to threaten the boy to get him to listen. Indeed, his son’s aversion to touch and the constant threat of it seemed to have tamed him.

It wasn’t what he’d call a very _typical_ means to an end though. Did his actions trouble him or bother him in any way? In hindsight, Haytham did feel a bit of guilt. Despite the morally grey area he lived his life in, he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that touching his son in such a manner had been inappropriate, but... It allowed him to exert power over the boy, did it not? With the problem of rebellion out of the way, he was free to mold him into whatever he desired.

The fear had been instilled into the boy’s spirit, and Haytham thought the matter done with. In fact, he had _almost_ pushed it out of his mind (busy as he was with rebuilding Templar power and attending to Connor’s re-education) when one night changed... Well, everything.

It was the noise, see. The sound wasn’t especially loud--just barely audible over the crackle of the fire and the scritch-scratch of his quill-- but to an individual like Haytham, who picked up on even the most minute details, it was an irritant. At first, he had waited for it to stop and go away on its own; he had enough patience for that. When it did not, however, his annoyance turned to curiosity--he would make the noise stop himself.

Opening the door, it took all of two seconds for Haytham to realize what was happening; he huffed quietly in mild exasperation and amusement. Connor hadn’t really struck him as the type to pleasure himself (all work and no play made him an unbearably dull boy at times), but if he was to be proven wrong on this one matter, so be it.

The boy took after his mother, Haytham noted with a touch of nostalgia: neither seemed to really care whether or not anyone else heard their voices while pleasure hummed through their veins and lust clouded their thoughts. Without another door between them, he could hear every last gasp and pant, every moan and hiss. Amused, he wondered if Mrs. Langley (or any of his other staff, for that matter) would still view the boy in the same innocent manner come morning.

Haytham turned to step back into his quarters, perfectly content to avoid listening to the rest of _that_ , but he froze with his hand on the doorknob as Connor uttered a single, coherent word: his name.

Wheeling around, he stared down the hall, eyebrows raised.


	8. Day Forty-Seven

To say that he had not slept well was an understatement.

Haytham pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose and tried to will away the pain he felt pounding at the insides of his skull. The noise from down the hall had, thankfully, stopped shortly after he had returned to his quarters, but the sound of his son’s voice echoed in his head throughout the remainder of the evening. Over and over again, Haytham heard Connor moan his name--the peculiar pitch of it sending shivers down his spine even now.

Of course, Haytham _wanted_ to pin the entirety of his insomnia problem on Connor. It would be much cleaner and easier to digest if that were the case, but alas, this was not something he could admit to. With the sounds of the boy’s pleasure ringing in his ears, he found himself hopelessly affected by the thought of his son stroking himself--stroking himself to the idea of it being _his father_ touching him.

He was too proud to acknowledge the problem during the night and ignored it to the best of his ability, albeit at the cost of rest. Indeed, Haytham was still unwilling to recognize the source of his discomfort now--though it had, much to his relief, become a mental issue now, rather than a physical one.

Last night had him proven wrong twice: his son _did_ , on occasion, take time to pleasure himself, _and_ he was apparently not as averse to physical attention as Haytham had originally thought. In fact, all signs now pointed toward the boy enjoying it--quite thoroughly, even.

It wasn’t exactly a _bad_ thing to discover, per se. After all, had he not previously wondered whether he should use touch as a deterrent or as a reward? The events from last night were the fruits of his rather dubious labor, and Haytham had to admit (rather sourly now) that he _had_ had fun tormenting the boy up until this point.

No, everything had just taken a slightly more... _personal_ turn than he had been expecting. Haytham _should_ have seen it coming, should have anticipated it, especially considering Connor’s apparent innocence, but he hadn’t. Had there really been no other individual in that boy’s head that he thought of in such a manner? To think that _he_ would be the first person to come up as mastubatory material...

He stared blearily at the book he was trying to read, dimly aware that he’d just perused the same sentence five times over, and sighed. A quick glance at the clock meant that, at any moment now, Connor was going to stride in through the doors of his study, and somehow, Haytham was going to have to deal with the boy for the remainder of the day.

Soft footsteps in the hallway heralded his son’s arrival, and as per usual, Connor walked right in without bothering to knock. Haytham lifted his head and directed a rather pointed glare in the boy’s direction, which was met, unsurprisingly, with indifference. In fact, the general attitude he carried about him now seemed to suggest that he wasn’t even aware that anyone had heard him last night.

After all, such bold behavior wouldn’t blossom over the course of a single evening, would it? He had thought the boy would have been bashful if he knew; it would fit in well with the behavior he’d witnessed thus far. And if Connor really _didn’t_ care, Haytham doubted that he’d be wearing such a puzzled expression right now; no, smugness would be more suiting.

“You’re late, boy,” he muttered, knowing full well that Connor was five minutes early, as was the norm. The Assassin opened his mouth to protest, but Haytham was simply not in the mood today. Fatigue chipped away at his patience, and already, he could feel anger prickle at the back of his thoughts. “Sit.”

The boy did so without verbal protest, but his brow creased; Haytham could already tell that his son was going to do or say something to annoy him--not that this would be very difficult at this point. “Haytham--”

That didn’t feel right anymore. The tone was off, the pitch all wrong. It had too much control and restraint; there wasn’t enough _want_ behind the way Connor said it.

“I am your _father_ , and you will address me as such.” His voice was sharp and clipped; Connor looked as if he’d suddenly been slapped, what with being cut off in such a manner. It must have seemed strange, especially considering how Haytham had never put up such a fuss about the matter before. “If you insist on calling me something else, then you may use, ‘ _sir_.’ It is inappropriate for you to be addressing me in such a manner.”

“I will call you whatever I wish, _old man,_ ” the boy bit out, large hands balling into fists. Connor’s irritated expression matched his own now, but Haytham refused to be outdone by this upstart.

“You will mind your manners around me. We have already _discussed_ this, Connor.”

“Only when you show me the same respect.” His son stood and moved away from the table, but instead of simply leaving the room, he circled, predatory. Haytham’s lips twisted into a grim smile; so the boy thought he could take on his father now, did he? Here he was demanding respect when he was nothing but a whelp.

“You haven’t earned it. You are but a child, and your actions now only prove it.”

“I have only reacted to the behavior you have shown me.”

They fell silent then, neither willing to give an inch. When the staredown was finally broken, it was Haytham who conceded, but only so that he, too, could stand. Drawing himself to his full height, he lifted his chin and clasped his hands behind his back.

“Do not make me threaten you,” he said, voice soft and deadly. This was usually when Connor would back off, perhaps angrily, but today, it would seem that Haytham’s current temperament only made him bolder. He stepped closer to his father and pressed a hand against his chest, shoving hard enough to make him take a step back.

“And _this_ is the way a grown man acts?”

His temper really was going to get the best of him today. Haytham tried to recall the exact text he’d just read, tried to think about the letter he still had to write to Charles, tried to think about _paint drying_ , but he just couldn’t do it; distracting thoughts were not enough to divert his anger. If Connor was so desperate to elicit a physical response from him, then he would have it. “I will ask you one more time: treat me with respect, _boy_.”

“You cannot make me, _Haytham_.”

That was it. _That_ was the last straw.

Connor was younger than him and could likely outmatch him in raw strength, agility, and speed, but what Haytham had was experience and surprise on his side. He pushed the Assassin and then swept his legs out from under him, quickly kneeling over the boy to hold him in place and pinning his hands beside his head. Connor tried to buck him off, but Haytham merely moved with his son’s attempts at freeing himself before shoving his knee against his sternum and exerting a steady downward force.

“Instead of our usual lesson today, shall we review what we’ve already discussed? Can you recall what is our chief goal as Templars?” he asked briskly. Connor bared his teeth and again struggled, stopping only the pressure against his chest made it hard to breathe. Haytham huffed quietly when no answer was forthcoming and proceeded to answer his own question. “Peace through order.

“And how does one achieve order? Control.” Haytham tilted his head slightly, regarding his son beneath him. His hands otherwise preoccupied, he leaned in and nipped at the exposed skin just above the boy’s collar; Connor shuddered beneath him, his breath hitching when Haytham applied his tongue. “Shall we have a practical demonstration?”

“What? Why?”

Those two words were enough to give Haytham pause, and he pulled away to stare down at his son, lips pulled into a frown. That was not the response he had been looking for. Connor’s voice had been breathy, and beneath him, he could feel the boy struggle to suck air into his lungs. Haytham was entirely too tired to deal with this now, too exhausted to put up with inane questions; didn’t the boy understand a rhetorical question when faced with one? He rolled his eyes and, at last, eased the weight off of the Assassin’s chest.

“Because you do not understand. Because you are a stubborn, naive fool.” He sighed and moved one hand from the boy’s wrist to his shoulder, pressing against the firm muscle that he felt beneath his fingertips. Haytham shifted, knees settling on either side of the boy’s thighs. “Because I know when to press my advantage.

“You are an imbecile if you think no one heard you last night.” His hand drifted downward, over his stomach and down to his groin. Ah _hah._ Haytham smoothed his hand over the stiffening erection he found there, silently enjoying the way it made Connor’s eyes flutter. “And I was right to assume that you are enjoying this.”

Realization did not look pretty on the boy’s face, or rather, it did not mix well with the embarrassment that was coupled with it. His face flushed as his eyes grew large, and Connor renewed his struggle, only to be forced into defeat when the hand between his legs squeezed harder. Haytham managed to drag a low moan out of his son’s throat with that gesture, and a dark sort of delight welled up within him.

There was still a part of him that felt that this was wrong and inappropriate, but when those lips parted and said his name, the hesitation melted away. (The pitch and tone, the desperation, the want--it was perfect this time. _Perfect_.) It was like a spell, and while he wanted to think that he was in control of this situation, Haytham quickly recognized that the boy held a certain amount of power over _him_ as well.

He’d just have to make sure that Connor never realized this.

“Control comes in many forms: physical, mental, emotional--to name just a few,” Haytham said, resuming his lecture. His voice dipped lower as he released the boy’s other wrist and picked at the bottom button of his waistcoat. There was no real need to undress the boy, not out here in his study, so he made quick work of the lone button, yanked his shirt upwards, and undid the ties of his breeches.

The boy was surprisingly docile during the entire affair, doing absolutely nothing to stop Haytham. Indeed, instead of fighting back with those now-freed hands of his, Connor had settled them on his shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric of his coat as if to keep him _close_. Against the floor, his hips shifted restlessly, as if trying to make fleeting contact with Haytham’s hands as they worked.

“It is best applied when the intended target is unawares or otherwise preoccupied--” Haytham ran his fingertips from base to tip, tracing the outline of the boy’s cock through his smallclothes. “--so as to best allay suspicion.” He applied a little more pressure and earned himself a stuttering cry. “Are you listening, Connor?”

Considering the way the boy’s back arched off the floor into his touch, no, he wasn’t.

Adjusting the press of his hand, he allowed his palm to slide along the shaft, ghosting a touch over the crown with a quick slide of his fingers. Haytham narrowed his eyes as he watched the shifting expressions that flitted across his son’s face; the boy had his eyes screwed shut and his lips parted on a soft cry. It was easily the most... unrestrained he’d seen him, aside from when he was in a fight, and in a way, Haytham thought it beautiful.

“One must always be sensitive--” His free hand stroked at Connor’s balls. “--to changes in the situation and play them--” Haytham tugged at the boy’s smallclothes, exposing his flushed cock at last. “--to one’s advantage.” The pad of his thumb rubbed at the slit, smearing the precum he found there.

Lifting a hand and spitting into his palm, Haytham started to stroke the boy’s penis in earnest, and Connor reacted with a hiss and a moan. The boy’s hips rolled upwards to fuck the tight curl of his fist; the grip at his shoulders was bordering on painful, but still, Haytham persevered. To be pleasured by another had to be a new sensation for Connor, had to be lighting his nerves on fire in the most delightful way.

When his son’s breaths took on a ragged quality and when his body took on a slight tremble, Haytham knew that he was close, and that... That was exactly where he wanted Connor to be: desperate for release.

“Applied properly, control can grant an individual a position of power--of dominance,” he said, as he pressed his hand against the boy’s hip, stilling its movement. This caused Connor to force open his eyes, confusion openly expressed on his face. Haytham’s lips quirked; he wasn’t quite done yet. “If there is a dominant position, then there must be one of subservience to match.”

Haytham hastened his strokes, as if he was going to at last grant his son orgasm, but at the last minute, his hand stilled. His fingers closed tightly at the base of the boy’s cock and stayed, denying him release; Connor all but keened, the heels of his shoes dragging against the wooden floor. The boy cursed in both Mohawk and English, and Haytham sneered as his son’s hands fell from his shoulders and scrabbled at the floorboards.

“One must obey the other. _This_ is order,” he said, raising his voice enough so that his words could penetrate Connor’s lust-addled brain. “So tell me, boy: what must be done to attain _peace_?”

His son’s chest heaved, and Haytham waited, quite patiently. The cogs slowly turned, and comprehension found its way slowly through his son’s thoughts; the moment of realization came to light with a slight crease of the brow that evaporated when Haytham squeezed, none too gently either. “Haytham, I--”

“Incorrect.”

“--Sir.”

“Better. Now what must you do?”

“I want--”

“ _What must you do?_ ” The press of Haytham’s fingers turned cruel at the boy’s hip. Bruises would have blossomed across bronzed skin by the time this exchange was over. “Answer me, boy, and you shall have what you so desperately seek.”

“Listen to you!” Connor shouted, frustration evident in the way his voice cracked. By his side, his hand balled into a fist and pounded the ground. “Obey you!”

Haytham’s grip loosened at long last, and he trailed his fingers over the boy’s shaft and then tugged once, twice. The boy spilled with a growl, leaving a mess on his waistcoat and jacket; his body collapsed back against the floor, spent, and Haytham sat back, satisfied with his work. He rubbed the smear of fluids on his hand against Connor’s shirt before rising to his feet.

Haytham was quick to turn away from the boy, carefully hiding his own arousal from view. He smoothed his hands over his waistcoat, adjusted the set of his coat. While he waited for Connor to sweep his thoughts back together, Haytham returned to the desk and took a seat; the ache between his legs was unpleasant, but to appear greater than his son, it was a displeasure he’d put up with for the time being.

When he spoke next, his voice was soft, his expression knowing.

“And this is how we find peace.”


	9. Day Fifty

Charles was not pleased.

He didn’t have to say a word, but Haytham knew. They’d worked together long enough that he could tell from the way his eyebrows would knit, the thin set of his lips, and the subtle change in his voice. With anyone else, Charles would have long ago expressed his displeasure, but it was likely out of respect that he had held his tongue up until now.

“And how much longer do you intend to keep the boy around?” he asked, fingers drumming against the table in irritation. Haytham waved a hand dismissively and returned his attention to the letter he was writing--after all, he had to finish this thing before Charles left; it was one of the main reasons behind the man’s visit.

“Does it trouble you, Charles?” Haytham finally replied, taking care to dot his i’s and cross his t’s before glancing up at him. The general bristled, and he could tell that there were more than a few things that Charles would _like_ to say to him. Haytham could only imagine what Charles’ reaction would be if he knew how he was intending to _tame_ the boy and have him join the Order.

“You are harboring the man who single-handedly destroyed _decades_ of _your_ work. And for what reason? In the hopes of turning him to our side?”

“You do not think I’m capable of doing it.” There was faint smile on his lips at this point. “You think it a lost cause.”

\--Which was understandable, considering that no one knew what was happening between father and son.

Following the events a few days prior, Connor was _considerably_ better behaved. Haytham knew it was not because of what he’d shouted in order to achieve release, but he did not think it too far fetched to believe that the boy was acting so well in the hopes of receiving _more attention_. He’d seen the brief glances his son threw in his direction when Connor thought he wasn’t looking, picked up on the slight touches between them, noticed how the boy tended to stand and sit closer to him than ever before.

The changes were subtle but oh so very telling. After realizing what it felt like to be pleasured by another, his own hand just wasn’t enough, especially when the individual whose touch he craved was so close, so accessible. Haytham was not entirely sure how much control he had over Connor at this point, but he fully intended to strengthen his hold on his son.

“I assure you. The boy and his talents will be ours, and considering the losses we’ve sustained--” Haytham signed his name with a relish. “--we could use such an asset.”

“And if your efforts fail?”

“Then I will kill him,” he replied smoothly, not missing a beat. Haytham waited a moment for the last of the ink to dry before neatly folding his letter, sealing it, and then handing it to Charles. “Any other questions?”

The general snatched the paper from his outstretched hand and stuffed it into his coat. “No.”

“Father, I--” Both men shifted their attention as the door to the study opened. A scowl crossed Charles’ features; Haytham smirked. Connor had yet to learn to knock, but that was all part of his plan. Rising to his feet, Haytham came to stand next to his son, noting the way the boy sidled a touch closer when his own feet came to a standstill.

“Connor, it’s been some time since you last saw Charles, hasn’t it? Go on, say hello,” he said, gesturing toward the general with a sweep of the hand. The man seated before them rolled his eyes, but his expression twisted into one of strange curiosity when Connor did as he was told.

“Good day to you, sir.” His words were not especially kind or done with any sense of sincerity, but the fact that the boy had managed that much to this individual he so loathed was an accomplishment all the same. Haytham placed his hand on his son’s shoulder and squeezed, rewarding him much in the same way one would reward a dog for performing a trick.

He relished the slight tremble he felt beneath his fingertips.

“Such a shame that you could not stay longer,” Haytham said, turning his gaze from Charles to Connor and then back again. “I understand that you have important matters to take care of.”

And that was his dismissal.

Charles stood and stiffy made his way to the door, casting one last scathing look at Connor before disappearing out of view. Haytham immediately turned away from the boy and returned to his place at the desk, pulling another sheaf of paper out and starting work on another letter; rebuilding the Templar’s stronghold in America took quite a bit of effort and even more words.

“I had waited for you in the drawing room as you had asked,” the boy said after a minute of standing rather awkwardly by the desk. “You had not come, so I came to look for you.”

“And you intruded upon my meeting with Charles,” Haytham replied, not looking up. Out of the corner of his eye, though, he could see the slight shift of the boy’s hands; he was troubled by this-- _good_. “It was fortunate for you that we were almost done, but you must learn to knock. It is only proper.”

Of course, that was all part of the plan--for Connor to step in during their meeting, for the two men to meet once more, and, most importantly, for the boy to feel guilt for having troubled his father.

“Sorry.” Connor moved, sweeping his fingers over the top of his desk, like they ached to touch something else instead. Haytham shifted his attention from the letter to his son, an eyebrow arched.

“And?”

“Will we still be having the lesson in the drawing room?”

“No. You’ve done enough damage for the day. I’d rather not see your face for the remainder of it. I’ve important matters to handle,” Haytham snapped. The look he wore was unforgiving, but inside, he was quite delighted by the expressions that played across his son’s face. The disappointment, the fear of being rebuked, the worry that he wouldn’t be able to spend time with his father... It was all perfect.

“But sir, I--”

“Do you intend to continue _wasting_ my time?”

“I wish to make amends.”

_Ah_ , now those were the words he wanted to hear.

Haytham set down his quill and regarded the boy, considering. “Amends,” he said dryly. “And how do you intend to do that when you do not even know what problems you’ve caused me?”

Connor struggled for an answer, starting several times, but the words always seemed to die on his lips. With a heavy sigh, Haytham shook his head. “You are incapable of doing even this properly.

“How you became the leader of the Assassins, I haven’t the slightest idea.” Connor frowned at that but didn’t open his mouth to protest. Good. The boy _was_ learning. “Shall I offer a suggestion?”

There was a moment’s hesitation, like his son was weighing the pros and cons of this, but in the end, he gave in with a slight dip of the head.

“Pleasure me.” Haytham paused, wondering if he should be more specific. “With your mouth.”

Color immediately flushed the boy’s cheeks, and Haytham was hard pressed to wipe off the smirk that pulled at his lips. It didn’t matter to him that Connor was utterly embarrassed by the idea of performing fellatio on him; Haytham figured the boy _owed_ him, especially considering how he’d been left to jerk himself off after his son had scurried away the other day. This sort of task was the perfect recompense.

“But someone may come in and--”

“It will be some time before Mrs. Langley comes with the afternoon tea,” Haytham said, cutting him off. “Unless you think your own skills so poor that you cannot please me before then? If such is the case, I suppose I can understand...”

The dismissive tone he took with Connor seemed to spur the boy into action, for his frown hardened as did the line of his brow. His son stepped closer just as Haytham pushed his chair further back, creating enough space for him to slip beneath the desk and between his legs. The boy peered up at him with defiant eyes as his hands worked quickly at the ties of his breeches; Haytham propped his chin up on his hand, his elbow resting on the armrest of the chair.

“Go on, then,” he murmured, eyes narrowed.

Connor turned his gaze to the task at hand, but it quickly became apparent that the boy had no idea what he was doing. He was hasty in dealing with his breeches, slow in pushing his smallclothes out of the way, and positively sloth-like in touching his cock when it was finally bared. After staring at it _far_ too long, Connor reached out and stroked it, tentatively, before Haytham sighed, settling his free hand in his son’s hair and jerking his head forward.

“I _said_ with your mouth.” His expression was bored, and he tangled his fingers a little more tightly in the boy’s thick locks. “Do you need instruction on this, too?”

Silence.

“Yes or no, boy.”

Connor shook his head, but there wasn’t really any conviction behind the action. If he wanted to figure this out on his own, Haytham had no trouble with that, save for one thing: “Fine. Do as you wish, but _mind your teeth_.”

His voice took a warning edge to it, and his fingers curled against the boy’s scalp, hard enough to cause pain if the grimace Connor wore was any sign. Still, his son said nothing and leaned in closer to his groin of his own accord. Haytham could feel his warm breath against his skin now, enjoyed the care with which calloused hands touched him, and hummed pleasantly at the first drag of tongue against his flesh.

The boy was cautious, eyes constantly darting upwards to meet his own--constantly wondering if what he was doing was appropriate, right, _pleasurable_. As one hand pressed against his thigh, the other would stroke his cock, the grip tightening slowly until Haytham tugged gently on his hair, signaling to Connor that _that_ was just right. The slide of the boy’s hand was quick to settle into a comfortable rhythm, but his mouth...

Haytham was of the mind that his son needed to use it more.

Connor laved his shaft with the flat of his tongue, pressed kisses to the underside. On occasion, he’d tease the slit with his tongue, but there was a decided lack of _sucking_ going on here. Certainly, the sensation felt nice all the same, and his body responded in kind--but as wonderful as it felt to have the boy, _ah_ , lapping at his balls, Haytham wanted the feeling of slick, wet heat all around him.

“It isn’t proper fellatio if you keep your mouth shut,” he finally said, pulling Connor’s face away from his cock, albeit only momentarily. Haytham dragged his thumb over the boy’s bottom lip and smiled. Connor looked dazed, high on lust or something else altogether. “You wanted to make amends, did you not? Open wide.”

And the boy did as he was told.

Haytham hummed low, pleasured, as little by little Connor took him in. There was the briefest drag of teeth against his flesh, but his son was quick to correct himself at the soft hiss that slipped past his father’s lips. The boy sucked in harsh breaths through his nose as he tried to become accustomed to being filled in such a manner; Haytham pet his hair reassuringly, whispered soft words of encouragement in between quiet gasps.

It took a little time of subtle corrections (a slight tug against his scalp, a hiss, a quick look of disapproval) and positive reinforcement (soft moans, gentle words) for Connor to settle into something Haytham could genuinely enjoy. Once or twice, Connor’s hands would slip from his line of sight (no doubt to touch himself), but he was quick to reprimand and order them back up; this was _his_ time, not the boy’s. Connor lacked finesse in his technique, but he was enthusiastic, at least, and eager to learn, as demonstrated by his quick reactions to any cues Haytham gave him--quicker still when there was reproach in his tone and words.

If only his son took to the Templar teachings as he did to sucking cock, hm?

“ _Hands_ , boy,” he grit out as Connor sucked delicately on the crown, and the boy obeyed, warm hands coming to cup heavy balls and stroke his spit-slicked shaft. Haytham could feel the pressure building low in his belly, could feel the growing tension, and it was with a low growl that he threw caution to the wind, adjusted his grip on the boy’s hair, and dragged him forward. Connor made a surprised noise as Haytham fucked his mouth with abandon, hands falling to the wayside, fingers clawing at soft cloth; his inhales were sharp, his eyes wide.

Release was glorious, and this-- _this_ more than made up for how one-sided their last little tryst had been. Haytham spilled down the boy’s throat and narrowed his eyes dangerously when he tried to pull away to spit; he held him firm, waited until he swallowed to relinquish his grasp on his poor, abused scalp. Connor coughed and gagged while Haytham settled into a languorous slouch in his chair, all but purring like a large, satiated cat. He remained boneless like this for a moment longer before pulling out a handkerchief, cleaning himself up, and tucking himself away.

Minutes later, he was looking as poised as he had been when Charles had first left the room. Haytham touched a hand to the boy’s cheek, gentle, and then made an upward gesture, asking his son to stand. Connor rose from his spot beneath the desk and missed the quick glance his father shot in the direction of the clock on the wall.

“You’ve caused me too much trouble today to warrant a reward for your efforts,” Haytham mused before rising from his seat. “However, you had best take care of _that_ \--” His eyes darted to the conspicuous bulge at the front of his son’s pants. “--before doing anything else.

“Show me what it is that you do alone in your room.” It was as open an invitation as Connor was going to get, and he even patted the chair he’d just vacated. Haytham circled around the table and leaned against the front edge of it, his gaze never straying far from the boy’s body. His son swallowed hard and sank into the proffered seat, palming himself almost immediately with a soft moan.

Where there had been hesitation working with Haytham, there was none now. Deft fingers worked their way beneath the layers of clothing easily enough, reappearing only when his cock was in hand. Haytham watched with thinly-veiled interested as Connor stroked himself, easily vocalizing his pleasure as he done in his bedroom--breathy sighs, low moans, and of course, the ever occasional whisper of his father’s name.

He was getting close, Haytham could tell, what with the way his hand’s movements became a little jerkier, the twitch of his hips a little more noticeable, and then--

_Knock knock._

Mrs. Langley was right on time, and once more, Haytham was graced with the presence of a completely and utterly flustered Connor. “Hay--” He caught his father’s warning glance. “Father!” His voice was low--hissed and filled with urgency. “Do something!”

Haytham merely chuckled and waved his hand, as if to assure the boy that all was well. He turned to face the door, hands still resting on the table, and said, “Mrs. Langley, do come in.”

Behind him, Connor cursed his existence in Mohawk.

Looking over his shoulder, Haytham simply smiled. He would have loved for the boy to continue while the maid was here, would have loved to watch his face as he tried to mask his pleasure, but alas, that time had not come just yet. His command over his son was not that strong, but he could wait. “The end table there, if you wouldn’t mind, Mrs. Langley.”

“Of course, Master Kenway!” she chirped, smiling brightly at father and son. Connor stared at the maid stonily, but she didn’t seem to notice; Haytham had to admire her apparent inability to see anything but innocence from his son. “Is there anything else you need, sir?”

“Not at all. Thank you,” he said, returning her cheer with a little of his own.

She curtsied and left them in peace; behind him, Connor made a noise that sounded curiously like a whimper. Haytham at last turned to look at the boy properly before circling around to rest his hands lightly on his son’s shoulders. “Finish up, lest she returns” he purred, soft and inviting in Connor’s ear. “Go on. Do as I say.”

The boy’s hand moved from its place at the base of his cock and began to stroke again--this time with great haste. Once, twice, three times--it didn’t take much for him to be sent over the edge, not with Haytham murmuring encouragement, warm breath against his skin, and when the boy climaxed, he mirrored Connor’s groan, albeit on a much quieter scale.

He waited until the boy’s breaths had evened out, waited until Connor had opened his eyes again, before stepping away, noting with no small amount of pleasure that his son followed his movements with regret--like he hadn’t wanted him to move away. There was so much _want_ in the boy’s body language, in his eyes; Haytham had never thought it possible for an individual to desire so much physical attention and to be _so willing_ to give up so much for it.

It had been a week since the boy had last mentioned the Assassins, five days since the Homestead was last brought up, and his village hadn’t been touched upon for two days now. How many more, he wondered, would it take for him to forget altogether?


	10. Day Sixty-Five

Peace had befallen the Kenway residence. The squabbling between father and son had all but ceased, and Haytham liked to think it the result of his actions. Intelligent conversation ruled over their lessons now; the boy even seemed genuinely interested in the material they covered--a sign, in his opinion, of a growing eagerness to learn of the Templar way.

If his son had not already forgotten about his old friends and allies, Connor made no mention of them. The world Haytham had constructed around the boy, for all appearances, was all that he knew now; everything beyond the confines of the house was a giant mystery in terms of news and activity. All that Connor understood about what happened past the fences of the Kenway home was what he could see from the windows, nothing more.

Of course, Haytham continued to work on taming the boy through touch as well. Threats had been entirely replaced with a reward system now, and their relationship improved because of it. Besides, it was easier to string his son along with promises of more than to continue the ruse of bodily harm. Templar power had recovered somewhat by this point, but those threats were still largely idle; Connor was not an idiot, and at some point, Haytham would no longer be able to control him that way.

Even if the Order was suddenly infused with power and influence, however, he would be slow to resume such means of authority. Positive bonds, he believed, often trumped the influence of negative ones, even if they took more time and effort to create. Besides, Haytham didn’t want Connor to work with him out of fear--that would always be uncomfortable, and discomfort could never lead to trust.

How much the boy trusted him thus far... Well, he was not entirely sure at this point. Connor was attentive during their lessons, open and wanting when they touched, but Haytham still struggled to understand what went on in his son’s skull. How much had he accepted the Templar teachings, and how much of it was just a ruse? At points, it all seemed too easy, and at others, Haytham wondered how he could ever doubt the brilliance of his plan. Either way, he did comprehend one item very clearly: Connor was desperate for more affection, if his increasingly vocal demands during their trysts were anything to go by. His hand, apparently, was no longer enough, but still, Haytham would refuse him.

The time was not right.

He had to make sure that the boy would continue to come back for more, would continue to stay by his side, and until Haytham was completely and utterly sure that his son would not simply wander off at the first given opportunity, he needed something to hold over his head, to dangle in front of his face. Indeed, such an opportunity to test the amount of power he could exert over Connor had just cropped up...

Today, Haytham at last had results to show for all his work: his Templar brethren had captured an Assassin in New York City. Weeks of writing letters to the remaining Templars, of plotting and planning to trap the Assassins, of purposefully (and incorrectly) leaking information about the whereabouts of their precious leader... All of this time and effort had finally borne fruit; someone had been caught in the snare.

The news had arrived by post, the brief missive from Charles stating that he was to come immediately. The general had believed (and not incorrectly) this to be too important an event to leave the Grand Master out of, and Haytham _wanted_ to see this individual, to interrogate the unlucky bastard himself.

Only one thing kept him from leaving the moment he received the news: Connor.

The boy was, in the end, still an Assassin, and despite all the advances they had made, Haytham could not help but worry what would happen if he were absent. No, it would not be the first time he had left the house since his son had taken up residence with him, but his excursions had never removed him from the area for more than a day. This journey now... Even _he_ could not predict how long he would be away.

Still, he would make use of this opportunity: a genuine test to see how far their bond had come. Even though he was sure of his course of action, it was something Haytham worried over for the entirety of the day. Such uncertainty was unbecoming of him, and even after he’d resolved to inform Connor of his plan, the thought of betrayal continued to plague him as he stood outside the boy's room--a thousand and one different scenarios running through his head as to how their relationship would sour, each one growing worse than the last. Forcibly pushing his worries aside, he finally rapped his knuckles against the door.

Connor was quick to answer; there was a certain degree of eagerness to the sound of the footsteps on the other side, evident even from the hall. Most individuals would have loathed such a visit at this late hour, but Haytham supposed the boy did not mind one when there was a possibility of pleasure involved. Who would have thought his son was such a lustful individual once one got rid of that embarrassed exterior? As he was not here to meet those very specific expectations, though, he offered the boy a brief but thin-lipped smile, and the curious hope that was on the boy's face slowly but surely dimmed.

"Not sleeping yet, I trust?" Haytham asked, brushing past his son and patting him gently on the shoulder. A lone candelabrum lit the neat and sparsely decorated room; the sheets were a mess, though, hinting that Connor may have already been in bed at the time of his disturbance; there was no sign--not outwardly, at least--of any less than appropriate activities however. On the bedside table was an open book.

Curious. His son was continuing his studies on his own? This was a new (and promising) development...

"No, father," Connor replied, closing the door behind him. The slight crease to the boy's brow suggested confusion as to his late night visit, but he tailed after Haytham, halting only when he had come to a stop by a window. Idly, he brushed aside the curtain and peered outside; the streets were quiet. Behind him, the boy stood waiting, as if seeking additional direction. "Is there something wrong?"

"I have a business matter to attend to in another city." Haytham turned to regard his son, allowing the curtain to fall back into place. This was the first time he had discussed any of his travel plans (any plans at all, really) with the boy, and Connor realized the uniqueness of this conversation immediately. "You are to behave while I am away."

"And you trust me to stay here?" the boy asked, voice low. There was a quiet, lurking danger in that question, in the way that Connor took to looking at him. Haytham dragged his gaze away, a slight frown pulling at his lips.

"I do." There was an unusual softness to his voice, and Haytham was quick to notice the change in his pitch. It was a deep hope of his that Connor _would_ stay, but he did not think it appropriate for him to be so _open_ about his desires in such a manner. He forced a scowl to his lips, as his eyes sharpened on the boy again. "Do not think to betray my faith in you."

"What do you intend to do?"

The tone Connor took with him reminded him heavily of how they came together initially here at his residence, and for the first time in many weeks, Haytham worried that his plan had fallen through--that all of this time had been spent for nought. He said nothing, unwilling to divulge any more and tilt the scales against his favor; perhaps it had been unwise to bring this up at all. What if this had been the break his son had been waiting for? What if, armed with this knowledge, Connor no longer cared to maintain the ruse of their relationship?

"Let me come with you."

It was not exactly what Haytham expected to come out of the boy's mouth, nor did he think he would see Connor's expression soften into _worry_ , of all things--in fact, Haytham was quite shocked to have received this response. He was quick to wipe the surprise off of his own face, though, lest it give his son other ideas, and replaced it with an uneasy smile.

"You wish to assist me? Really?"

"If trouble should befall you--"

Haytham laughed, but there was little humor in his voice. "Child, you realize that only Assassins would come after me, do you not? We have no quarrel with the Patriots nor the British, not now when the Americans are on the verge of ousting the Crown. Do you intend to fight and kill your own brothers?"

It was like dunking him in a barrel of cold water; Connor's face fell as harsh realization set in. Haytham smiled, grim and vicious; this was _truth_. Maybe he shouldn’t have reminded the boy of his allegiances, but this was a test they would have to pass eventually if Haytham's plan was to come to fruition. The only real question was whether or not he was pushing for this event too soon. " _Well_?"

"What do you intend to do?" the boy asked again, and this time, there was worry in his voice and conflict in his eyes.

"I will be meeting with Charles," Haytham replied, being sure to make his tone reflect that _that_ was the end of this particular topic of conversation. He wondered whether he should say more, wondered if the boy’s imagination would make things a thousand times worse than reality, but in the end, he left it at that--a vague half-truth. “I travel at dawn.”

The moment he turned his back to retreat to his quarters, he felt something catch on his coat sleeve. Haytham looked over his shoulder and found Connor staring him, as if not entirely sure why he’d reached for his father just then, for he retracted his hand a moment later. “When will you return?”

“I will write,” he answered, as if this was somehow a satisfactory answer. An awkward silence fell between them, and the corners of Connor’s lips twitched, like there was something he wanted to say but couldn’t quite come up with the words to properly express himself. Haytham sighed and dipped his head in farewell. “This... takes precedence over your education, son.”

“Wait--”

“It is _late_ , Connor. I do not have time to be--”

“ _Haytham_.”

His eyes narrowed at that _very_ deliberate use of his name. “How many times now have I told you not to call me that?”

“It is the most foolproof way to get your attention,” the boy replied, and grudgingly, Haytham had to agree. He rolled his eyes and deigned to give his son a _few_ minutes more.

“Well, what is it? Spit it out. The night is not growing any younger.”

The matter at hand, however, turned out not to be words but action. Connor fisted the cloth at his neck and dragged him over for a kiss--sloppy and messy and not nearly as undesirable as Haytham wished it was. It wasn’t because he _enjoyed_ the feel of it--and it _certainly_ wasn’t because the intimacy of a shared kiss with the boy was new to the both of them. Of course not; it couldn’t be that.

For all of the touching and petting and fondling that Haytham had done, he’d drawn a rather distinct line at the act of _kissing_. It seemed too gentle, too close, and too familiar; there was a strange sort of danger about the act that worried him. Of course, Connor didn’t know about the boundary that he had set, didn’t know that this certain action had much the same effect on him as the low purr of his name.

One kiss turned into two and then three and four, and it was then--and only then--that Haytham pushed the boy away. “Enough,” he murmured. “That’s _enough_.” His voice took a sharper edge now; he couldn’t allow for the boy to assume the dominant role here, couldn’t allow him to take the lead. Besides, he had to rest; the trip to New York City would be a long one.

Connor relented, distraction melting into concern as the seconds ticked by; his hands remained twisted around his shirt. “Be safe.”

Haytham waited and waited, standing there motionlessly, but the expression on the boy’s face never changed. Surely his son knew that his work dealt with the conflict between Assassins and Templars; _surely_ the boy knew that his allies would be a part of this momentous occasion. Connor was naive, but at the very least, when it came to matters of this variety, he couldn’t believe that Haytham’s trip was _merely_ about speaking to Charles, right? Did he not worry about what he would do?

He narrowed his eyes slightly and decided that he may as well not push his luck, if his son was content to be neutral (or rather, _oblivious_ ) about this. Slowly but surely, his posture relaxed, and Haytham touched his hand to the boy’s cheek, smiled when Connor leaned into it.

“Such concern. Gone soft, have we?” he murmured. His son looked as if he was about to protest when he continued, his next words causing him to shiver instead. “I suppose I should reward you for that. I’ll give you a proper farewell.” Connor leaned toward him, hoping for another kiss, but Haytham stopped him, placing a finger upon those lips. “Get in bed.”

He’d be more exhausted than he need be for tomorrow’s journey because of this, but perhaps this was just as important: to, again, give Connor something to look forward to, to want in his absence--to make him forget that Haytham very well could be doing harm to one of his precious Assassin brothers in a few days’ time. He’d danced too close to that line for his comfort and almost ruined the idyllic world he’d set up in this house; it was too soon--still too soon--to expose Connor to such things.

No, the more he thought about it, placating the boy with pleasure was _necessary_ right now. On the eve of his departure, Haytham Kenway had to be damned sure that his son was happy.

He gave him a gentle push and then turned his back on him, gracefully shrugging his coat off. There was the soft padding of bare feet on the floor and then the gentle rustle of fabric, of the sheets being moved. Leaving his coat on top of a chair in the corner, he started working open the buttons of his waistcoat, and Haytham could _feel_ the boy’s gaze upon him, could feel the heat of it.

By the time he’d finished and loosed the kerchief tied around his throat, the intensity of Connor’s stare was causing a most pleasant shiver to run down his spine, to settle low in his belly. Haytham at last started for the bed and crawled up beside the boy, not minding the fact that his boots would dirty the sheets; Mrs. Langley would have more than a bit of mud to worry about once they were done tonight.

Pushing the hem of his nightshirt up, Haytham splayed his hand across the boy’s abdomen, testing the muscles beneath his palm and fingertips. His skin was warm to the touch--something he’d come to notice all the more clearly as the weather became colder and colder as the days drifted by--and he hummed appreciatively as his son drew his clothes further up, exposing more of his body for him.

He wasn’t an especially _exploratory_ individual in the bedroom. Haytham didn’t care much for delaying his pleasure, but for once, he had to admit that Connor was the more important party to please. The more the boy was a wanting, needy mess, the better for him. Haytham would be much better off if his son did not remember the awkward conversation about his travels but about promises of what was still to come instead.

The boy lifted his hands to return the favor, to touch in turn, and they toyed at the fabric of his shirt; Haytham gently brushed them away, tutting quietly. This, apparently, was not the right thing to do, as a slight frown formed on his son’s lips.

“You will still not do as I have requested,” the boy muttered, giving his father a frustrated look, and yet, he allowed his arms to fall back to the bed on either side of his head. Haytham tilted his head and allowed his eyebrows to rise; he’d feign surprise for now to disarm Connor.

“And what is it that you want?”

“For more of you. You do not let me touch you, and you have only given me the pleasure of your hand.”

“You do not enjoy using your mouth? I was under the impression that you did,” Haytham replied, smirking when Connor shot him a glare.

“That is not what I meant.”

“Then be more articulate in your speech.”

“ _Father._ ”

Ah, there was growing irritation in the boy’s tone now. In a strange way, Haytham was delighted that this facet of Connor’s personality remained. Before, his stubbornness and temper issues would be directed at him in the most unfortunate ways--ways that often dealt directly with matters of business. To have his son angry about matters of _pleasure_ , however, was far better, and Haytham did not mind it--even might have encouraged it on more than a few occasions.

Of course, anger had the _wonderful_ side effect of making one forget topics not immediately at hand as well.

“Yes?”

“You said that you would bid me farewell. Properly.”

“I suppose I did,” he answered, his response neither here nor there. Haytham sighed, as if considering what to do next. He had to give the boy something that would keep him wanting for more, but to give him too much now with nothing to leave to imagination... Well, that wouldn’t do either. Perhaps a treat and a challenge to keep him company then. “Yes, I suppose I should give you something to tide you over...

“Since I expect you to avoid touching yourself for the entirety of my trip.”

There was an easy carelessness about his words, like he was merely discussing the weather or some other dull topic. Haytham smoothed his hand over the boy’s chest, thumbing a nipple and enjoying the musculature of the boy’s body. There were little nicks and scratches--old scars that marred the skin--and he touched those, too; briefly, Haytham wondered how many of these marks were his doing, how many more were from his allies. He still counted the boy beautiful though: wild and powerful, to be admired like an exotic beast and enjoyed with the ever present threat of danger.

That was what his line of thought _would have been_ had his little reverie not been disrupted by a rather loud “ _What?_ ” a moment later.

“Did you not hear me? Allow me to rephrase: you are not to masturbate while I am away,” he said calmly, keeping his eyes trained upon the movements of his fingers.

“You ask too much.”

And to think, before they engaged each other in such a manner, Haytham had thought the boy incapable of touching himself. Now? Now Connor argued that he could not bear the thought of doing without. The fact that _he_ was behind the change filled him with a strange delight in the basest of ways.

“For your troubles, I will reward you grandly upon my return,” he promised. “I’ll even allow you a preview tonight.”

Doubt continued to cloud the boy’s expression, and Haytham sighed. Perhaps he had teased too much during their previous encounters, but it was what hooked the boy, what kept his attention; it was _necessary_ \--at least, this was what he told himself.

“Show me,” was the simple response he got.

“Very well.”

With a slight wave of the hand, Haytham had the boy sit up, albeit only long enough to wrench his nightshirt off, order the boy to remove his smallclothes, and shove him back down again. He smiled briefly at the sight of Connor’s arousal and lazily stroked it a few times before allowing his hand to wander: over the curve of his hipbone, along his sides, across his pectorals, and then upwards over his collar bones toward his throat. His touch grew a little more heavy-handed here, applying downward pressure, and his smile turned predatory.

Funny how the last time he’d circled his hands around the boy’s neck he’d been trying to kill him, but this time... This time, Haytham just wanted to watch him twitch, just wanted to remind him who was in charge. The moment passed, however, and the slide of his fingers became gentle again, slipping down and away. Perhaps he imagined it, but Haytham could have sworn that Connor sighed a little in relief when his attentions turned elsewhere.

“I’ll miss this,” he commented idly before spitting in his palm. As he began to stroke in earnest, his son’s ability to respond coherently decreased, but Haytham continued on, apparently uncaring that the only additions to the conversation were a few stuttered moans and a handful of gasps. “You think that it will be difficult for you, but I’ll be in much the same predicament, if not worse.

“While you are free to spend your days idling--” He skated his free hand up the boy’s inner thigh, noted the way Connor’s fingers curled just a little more tightly around the sheets. “--I will be forced to work--” His fingertip found the boy’s hole, and Haytham stroked at the tight ring of muscle he found here. “--while thinking of what I could be doing to you instead.”

The admission struck a little closer to home than he normally would have admitted to, but given the boy’s state of mind, Haytham figured that such a confession would be safe to make. Connor took up more and more of his thoughts these days, and while he did not doubt his work for the Order would keep him busy, did they not say that absence made the heart grow fonder? Though, fondness was probably _not_ the best description of their relationship.

It would have been better to use a _proper_ lubricant, but the boy had demanded something Haytham had not come prepared for. Perhaps he should have been more concerned that Connor would _hate_ what he was about to do, that he’d end up resenting his return for it, but the twitch of the boy’s hips and the way his eyes fluttered in anticipation told him that any worry he might have had was unfounded. He smiled, delighted, as he lifted his fingers to his lips and laved each one with his tongue.

Connor slicked his own lips as he watched, and it made Haytham’s cock twitch.

“You keep saying that you want more,” he continued, his voice rougher around the edges now, darker with the lust that hummed in his veins. “Was _this_ \--” Haytham teased his entrance, pressing just hard enough to force a little give in the muscle and then retracting his finger to the sound of regretful moans. “--what you wanted?” He repeated the action several times more before allowing his middle finger to sink in to the first joint; Connor’s hips shifted, begging for more. Encouraged, Haytham began to thrust his finger in and out of the boy, allowing the digit to sink deeper each and every time.

The movement of his hand on Connor’s cock began to mirror that of his finger, first slow and then fast, quickening with the rise and fall of his son’s chest. The boy’s hands no longer clutched at the sheets, and they wandered now, touching himself, pleasuring himself with featherlight sweeps of the fingers, heavy drags of the nails that left red marks across bronze skin. Haytham would have wondered what it would feel like for those hands to be on him instead, which was par for the course for these encounters, but his thoughts, tonight, were now focused on the clench of the boy’s arse upon his finger.

Connor was wonderfully tight around him, and Haytham found himself wishing desperately that he could be driving himself home in that delicious heat. With a low growl, he smeared the boy’s precum over his fingers and switched hands, sinking two digits into Connor in one smooth motion. Toward the head of the bed, his son let out a broken cry, and Haytham stilled, allowing him a brief moment to become acquainted to the intrusion; his now free hand picked up where the other had left off, tugging at rigid flesh. When the arch of the boy’s back relaxed, he continued, stroking a little more methodically now--searching. It would not take him long to find that bundle of nerves, and when he did, Haytham had no doubt that his son would let him know.

And he did.

Connor’s ragged moan was sweet, sweet music to his ears, and he could not help but mirror it with one of his own, as his cock ached for attention, still trapped beneath layers of cloth. The boy panted as he took to thrusting against the press of Haytham’s fingers, and the mantra of “more” that he’d gotten so used to surfaced again. This time, however, it was much more difficult to ignore and far more difficult to deny--almost _too_ difficult.

Haytham could not say what made _this_ encounter so different from the others. Fucking the boy with his fingers should not have created such a shift, should not have made him just as desperate as Connor for more, and what did he care if he would not see the boy’s face for some time? Should he seek pleasures of the flesh, New York City would have more than enough offerings for him to take advantage of, so _what was it_?

In an effort to stay the temptation of giving the boy exactly what he wanted, he removed his fingers--a necessary but most regretful decision. Connor howled at the loss, eyes snapping open before sliding shut once more at the tight squeeze of his father’s hand on his cock. Haytham at last freed himself from the confines of his clothing and pressed close--hip to hip, groin to groin; he adjusted his grip to accommodate the both of them before resuming a breakneck pace that matched their desperation.

They panted, hips snapping into the tight curl of Haytham’s fist, and it was Haytham who spilled first this time, sinking his teeth into the curve that connected neck to shoulder; his blood pounded in his ears, drowned out the sound of his son moaning beneath him. Large hands dug into his back, as if in reaction and retribution, dragging cotton against overheated skin, and then Connor bucked against him a final time, adding to the mess smeared between them.

Haytham rolled to the side, chest heaving, and the boy remained boneless beside him. The air was filled with the sounds of their heavy breathing and the smell of sex. Blindly, Haytham grabbed for the sheets, yanked them out from beneath Connor’s head, and wiped at his shirt, ruined though it was. He felt like a sticky and sweaty mess, and exhaustion finally began to prickle at the corner of his thoughts as ecstasy slowly ebbed away. It took him some time to convince his body to push himself into a sitting position, longer still to get back to his feet and tuck himself away.

He’d gotten too close to losing control there, but at the very least, the boy did not seem to notice. Connor was still, at this point in time, in much the same mental state as he had been before: dazed, eyes glazed over from the rush of pleasure that had likely overloaded his thoughts. Haytham smirked a little and idly ran his fingertips over the bite mark he’d left on the boy’s skin; it had been unintentional, but now that he thought about it, perhaps it was not so bad to leave a more physical reminder of his presence.

Indeed, he probably should have left even more.

Grabbing the rest of his clothing from atop the chair, Haytham started for the door, pausing only when he heard the raw voice of his son calling for him. So, at last, the boy was able to rouse himself, eh? He turned, regarded him with a tired but questioning expression. “What is it now?”

“If I uphold my end of the bargain, will you do the same?”

“Of course.” His lips quirked into a faint and passing smile. “You have my word.”

Haytham liked to think that he had the boy now, had made him his own, but he wondered: had _he_ lost a part of himself to Connor along the way?


	11. Day Seventy-One

He’d never been especially fond of traveling during the winter months. So many waterways became unusable because of the ice, and traveling by land was hardly any better. Haytham had taken advantage of carriages when they were available, but given the circumstances and the need to hurry to his destination, there were times when such a luxury was simply not an option. He’d be forced to horseback then, forced to deal with Mother Nature and all that she could throw at him, whether it be snow, ice, or a biting wind.

It was, in all truth and honesty, a miracle that he didn’t catch cold on his way to the city.

His Templar brothers had welcomed him with open arms upon his arrival, but it was the warmth of their headquarters that Haytham would remember most fondly; important his presence might be here, he could not bring himself to really care for the company. All the same, Haytham put on a polite smile and shook the hands of his compatriots, as he was their Grand Master and that was his duty.

Charles was practically _beaming_ with pride when at last they came face to face. Haytham was reminded of how the man had appeared when they first met in Boston so many years ago, even if the situation was not as hopeful and bright as it had been back then--or perhaps that was merely his mindset alone. Their losses had been heavy, and while they were on the road to recovery, Haytham could only imagine what the world would have been like if they hadn’t run into so many setbacks during their original rise to power.

“You must be exhausted from your trip here. Come, allow me to show you to your quarters,” the general said, his fingers still clasped tightly around Haytham’s. Charles pressed his free hand to his shoulder and guided him away from the milling crowd; his exuberance softened slightly as they walked further from the chatter. Indeed, by the time they came to a stop, Haytham couldn’t hear the voices of the other guests, and he found himself thankful for that.

“The prisoner is secure, Haytham. Please. Rest for the remainder of the evening, and we shall see him in the morning.”

For a moment, he thought to protest--after all, he had come all this way (left _Connor_ alone to whatever devices he came up with) to see this individual--and yet, in the end, Haytham decided that he would make good on Charles’ offer. Perhaps it was the dreariness of the weather, his age, or something else altogether, but he wished for nothing more than peace and quiet. “Yes, thank you, Charles.”

And that was that.

The room was silent, save for the crackling of the fire, and Haytham sighed. He went through the motions of changing out of his weather-beaten traveling gear and then sat at his desk, a quill in hand and a blank paper before him. Loathe though he was to admit it, Haytham could not get his son out of his head--the boy overtook his thoughts, made it difficult to focus on the task at hand. He worried, of course, about whether Connor was still there, but not all of his thoughts were quite on point.

_Connor--_ , the letter started, and Haytham paused, thinking. What was there to say? Really, why had he started writing at all? He had no intention of telling the Assassin about the happenings here, and what good would it be to discuss the matter of his travels? In the end, Haytham decided that sentiment was the culprit here, and he crumpled the unfinished letter, tossing it in the waste bin.


	12. Day Seventy-Two

Haytham slept fitfully, and he woke before dawn’s first light. Irritation prickled in his mind as he readied himself for the day, and by the time Charles appeared on the doorstep, he had worked himself into a right foul mood. Exhaustion still lined the corners of his eyes, and Haytham felt a heaviness in his body, in his spirit. Still, he exchanged niceties with the general as they mounted their horses and started toward the hut at the edge of the city where the Assassin was being held. When Charles asked how he was, Haytham lied through his teeth.

He wanted to blame his poor state of mind on the journey he had just undertaken or the lack of rest, but deep down, Haytham knew why he was this way: it was the boy. It bothered him to no end, made his temper all the worse, but he missed Connor--missed the sound of him in the halls and rooms, the feel of him beneath his hands, the way he listened and obeyed (but not always without protest). His longing grew day by day and, with it, his bad temper.

Haytham knew himself well: when he’d told the boy that his thoughts would be preoccupied with the desire to press him into the mattress, to take him and fuck that pretty little hole, he had not been lying. He was left here, wanting.

“Your son. What have you done with him?” Charles asked as they ambled along the snow-covered road. Haytham refocused his attention, turning it toward the man who rode beside him. The general cast a glance over at him, his gaze expectant; the look in his eyes clearly stated that he fully expected Connor to be dead by now, despite the small amount of success he’d witness during his last trip to the Kenway residence.

“Nothing.”

“He still resides with you?” The man’s brow furrowed, caught somewhere between surprise and displeasure. “But what now? With you here--”

“You needn’t worry,” Haytham replied, the edge of his voice a little sharper than he had intended. Charles arched an eyebrow but said nothing. “My work with my son continues,” he went on, and Haytham thought of supple, bronzed skin, a voice that sent shivers down his spine in a way that the chill in the air could not. Charles made a noncommittal sound, and Haytham was glad that the man did not push for more details.

Besides, it wasn’t as if he had _lied_ ; advances _had_ been made.

The remainder of the ride was silent, and Haytham took in the sight of the shack with a strange sense of relief. Perhaps now he would be able to focus, what with real work at hand. Two men stood guard at the door; they watched their approach with wary eyes but relaxed at the sight of Charles. Haytham’s annoyance momentarily peaked at the thought that it was _Charles_ that these individuals recognized and not him, but then again, he had all but vanished from the scene following the events at Fort George, becoming nothing more than words on a page to his brothers. Such behavior was to be expected from his men, especially since he did not recognize these two from the night before.

Brief greetings were exchanged, hats were tipped, hands were shaken, and then they were ushered inside the small, one-room structure. Another two men stood watch within, but considering the way that their charge was bound (very well, Haytham had to admit, as his eyes swept over the knots) hand and foot to the chair he sat in, he doubted their services were really necessary. Charles dismissed them with a soft word and a slight nod; Haytham stepped closer, fingers closing around the burlap bag thrown over their prisoner’s head and tugging it off.

He had been expecting bruises, cuts, possibly even disfigurement, but, strangely enough, all that the man had was a healing black eye and a split lip; he was otherwise clean and well taken care of. The corner of Haytham’s lip quirked, and the Assassin scowled, though the effect was somewhat ruined by the way he blinked at the light.

“Jacob Zenger. A former Hessian,” Charles supplied, stepping up beside him. Haytham noted the way he smoothed one hand over the other; he wondered if Charles was the one who had dealt those blows to the eye and mouth of their prisoner. “His wife and son are en route to the Americas.”

“Are they now?” he asked, as he circled the Assassin. His gaze flicked upwards to meet the general’s. “And he told you all of this, did he?”

Charles’ smile was quick and sharp. “Sadly, no. Mr. Zenger has been uncooperative up to this point. It took no small amount of digging to find out his identity.”

“Then I trust he has told us nothing about the Brotherhood.”

“Not a word, Haytham.”

Zenger reacted to the mention of his name, chin tilting upwards and eyes narrowing. “You are his father,” he said, and Haytham lifted his eyebrows, curious. “Connor has talked about you before.

“Where is he?”

Ah, excellent, so the Assassins _were_ looking for their leader, just as he had expected them to. The curl of his lips took on a crueler twist, and Haytham nodded his head, pleased. He’d spin a lie for this man, and with the anger and desperation that he hoped to instill, maybe he could loosen his tongue.

“Six feet below the ground,” he answered smoothly. Charles tensed, but thankfully, the Assassin’s attention was upon him, disbelief all too evident in his eyes. The shock, however, was quick to morph into outright anger, and the man struggled against the bonds that held him, rope cutting into his flesh.

“By whose hand did he fall?”

“Mine.” For effect, Haytham allowed the hidden blade to slide out--sharp and deadly, thirsty for more blood. He looked at it idly for a moment before allowing it to disappear once more, and then he returned his gaze to the Assassin.

“And you dare call yourself his father?” The man’s tone had become cold with a different sort of anger, an anger that Haytham had not been expecting; he was not entirely sure which was more dangerous. Their prisoner ceased his struggles against his bonds, but he bared his teeth and spat at his feet. “A real man would never harm his own son, and yet, you have slain him.”

The comment caused a strange twist in his gut, and Haytham frowned. This was not how this interrogation was supposed to go. Where was the rage that he sought to use? What was this accusatory tone? It was not as if Connor was truly gone from this world. He’d merely told a lie to suit his purposes, and yet, the stare with which Zenger fixed him with was so intense that he faltered. His hesitation lasted no longer than a second, but that he would give pause at all...

So this was the anger of a _father_ \--the hatred of one father toward another who had failed in his duties. Haytham had long known that he had never been there for Connor, never really thought of the boy as his _son_. Even now, he questioned the relationship he had with him, and a part of him--a deep, integral part of his being--was jealous of what this individual clearly had with his own child.

Not long ago, Haytham likely would not have cared to have such words thrown in his face, but he’d changed.

Temper thoroughly riled, he leaned toward Zenger, hands braced atop the man’s forearms; he squeezed, _hard_ , and Haytham relished the grimace that crossed Zenger’s features. “Then I shall discard my title as man and become a monster instead.”

He leaned away, giving himself enough space to bring his arm back, only to have his fist slam into the man’s face. The force with which the blow connected was enough to knock Zenger over in his chair, and the man’s skull hit the floor with a loud crack. There was silence then, and the man was motionless.

“Oh for God’s sake, Haytham,” Charles snarled, as he bent over to check Zenger. “What has gotten into you? Did you not say that you wanted to get information from him?”

“Apologies,” he muttered, but there was no sincerity in his voice--there was nothing but poorly bridled anger. Haytham circled the room in agitation, and it was only when Charles rose to his feet again that he stilled. Even so, his fingers remained curled into fists, and his blood continued to pound in his ears.

“You’ve knocked him unconscious.” The general looked down at the man, nudged him with his boot. “He’ll need to be seen by a doctor.” Haytham glared at him, daring Charles to blame him for this, even though he knew full well that he was the guilty party here. “And you had best hope that he’ll still awaken.”

“See to it then,” Haytham said, casting one final look at the Assassin before excusing himself. There was the sound of harried voices behind him as Charles barked out orders to the men stationed here, but he ignored them all and mounted his horse instead. Distantly, he could hear Charles shouting his name as he rode off, returning to the Templar headquarters on his own.


	13. Day Seventy-Five

Though physical exhaustion continued to weigh heavily upon him, a new sort of restlessness had filled his thoughts. His feet refused to stop pacing, and his hands, they itched--though for what, he was not entirely sure. To write? To kill? To touch and feel? Haytham loathed the uncertainty that he felt, and he lashed out at the poor souls who had the great misfortune of having to serve him during his stay at the safehouse.

On multiple occasions, he tried to ground his disquiet with a letter to the boy. Haytham _had_ promised to write, but up to this point, he had not managed to complete and send off a single missive, despite the dozens of attempts he’d made. They lacked content; they contained too much; they spoke too intimately of his longing. The fireplace was littered with burnt paper by the time he’d finally penned a letter to Mrs. Langley instead, asking her about how his son was faring.

It felt inadequate in a way, but then again, that would be par for the course with the rest of his parenting.

Loathe though he was to admit it, but Haytham was relieved when Charles at last came with news of Zenger. If nothing else, the work would provide him with solace from his thoughts, plagued as they were by thick, black hair, calloused hands, and soft lips--solace from a most perverted sort of pleasure.

“What word from the doctor?” he asked, as Charles took a seat across from him in the study. The general gave him a frustrated look, fingers drumming against the armrest; clearly, Haytham’s actions had caused the man a fair deal of trouble. “Is he still unconscious?”

“No, he’s not,” was the quick and sharp reply. “He awoke less than an hour later, but you’ve done your damage to him.” There came a pause and a thinly-veiled look of reproach. “The doctor demanded that he rest for several days, but you needn’t have left like that.”

His tone suggested that he was disappointed in him, disappointed that he’d just ridden off when, really, he should have stayed. No blood had been spilled, and while tempers had risen, there had been no death--quite surprising given their track record together.

“And what, pray tell, sort of damage has he sustained?” Haytham replied, doing his level best to keep as much sarcasm out of his voice as possible. “Can we use it to our advantage?”

“You’ve ruined his eyesight for one.”

“Blinded?”

“Double-vision. He grows nauseated whenever he opens his eyes. The doctor is unsure of how long this will last.”

“What a shame.” --For their prisoner, of course. A man couldn’t be an Assassin without proper sight, but he was still alive and well enough to question. To be deprived of something so essential had to increase the man’s anxiety levels as well--something Haytham considered to be a boon when trying to break an individual. The situation was sounding better and better in his opinion, so what had put Charles into such a foul mood?

“There is also the matter of his amnesia.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Go on.”

“I’ve been told that the loss isn’t significant: only a few hours before the incident,” he answered, and Haytham could practically hear the silent suggestion that was hidden in Charles’ words. He made a quiet, considering noise before nodding his head slightly.

“Then we can avoid our previous mistake.”

For a moment, it seemed as if Charles was about to say something else, but in the end, he merely rose from his seat, looking a little miffed about the entire situation. Haytham watched before following suit, plans quickly forming in his head as he sought to take the greatest advantage of this second chance.

“We approach with the same angle as before,” he finally said, leading them out of the study and toward the front door. “We push for details on the location of the remaining Assassins as well as their plans.”

Again, Haytham felt a strange sort of disapproval from the way Charles looked at him, but the general continued to say nothing. They walked out into the snowy streets in stilted silence, and as they rode toward the hut, the only sound between them was that of hooves meeting the frozen ground. Once more, they were greeted by the guards, but this time, when they were ushered inside, it was a doctor, not more Templars, who excused himself--after receiving a hefty payment from Charles, of course.

The chair had been replaced with a bed, and a single manacle around his left ankle took the place of the ropes binding him before. Zenger looked a bit paler than he had previously, but at the sound of the door opening, he sat up and pressed a hand to the sash wrapped around his eyes. He looked less at ease with himself than during Haytham’s previous visit, and it was with some sense of terrible glee that he watched the man tense with each footstep.

“How have you been enjoying our hospitality?” Haytham asked, coming to a neat stop several feet away. The Assassin laughed without humor and rested his elbows on his knees. “The doctor we brought to see you is among the best.” If the price tag on his services was anything to go by, that is. Haytham was reminded of Benjamin, reminded of how he’d first found the doctor: bound and bleeding, at the mercy of a torturer.

“I wager he could have even saved your leader’s life had he been present.” Zenger’s head jerked up, and Haytham smiled. So the man really _didn’t_ remember. On the short trip over, he’d worried that this had all been an act, but a reaction like that surely couldn’t be faked--that anger couldn’t be an act, what with the curl of his lips, the furrow in his brow, and the balling of his fists.

Still, he did not speak.

“It was a fool’s errand for him to come to Fort George, and in the end, what did he throw his life away for? Nothing.” Haytham began to slowly pace the room, his gaze never leaving the stony figure of Zenger, seated at the edge of his bed and body rigid with anger--or was it sadness? “The world has not changed, despite his sacrifice.

“Though...” He allowed a note of humor to slip into his voice. “I suppose the Templars have to thank him for giving up his life so willingly.”

Zenger snapped then, rising to his feet. Though the sash remained tied tight around his eyes, Haytham could practically feel his stare boring into him, and in a way, he relished that attention. This sort of animosity was something he could work with--something he’d almost come to miss. “Connor died for the Creed, and we will not forget him.”

“And when you are all dead?” His voice dropped in pitch, and he stepped closer, circling just out of the man’s reach. “Who will remember him then?”

“We will continue to survive. You cannot get rid of us!” Zenger shouted, pulling and yanking on the chain that bound him to the bed. “There will always be those who rise to fight against the power of tyranny. Always.”

“And yet, humanity will always seek a shepherd to guide it. Even if your kind win, Zenger, the people will want peace--they will want some semblance of order in their lives.

“Do you think the world can exist in a truly anarchistic state?”

“Freedom is not anarchy.”

“And order is not tyranny.”

Haytham sighed and retreated to the other side of the room, leaning easily against the wall. He folded his arms across his chest and glanced over at Charles, who gave him the slightest of nods. “I am not here to argue philosophies with you, Zenger,” he said, calmly. “I merely wish to know what the Brotherhood has planned and the location of your other agents.”

The Assassin stood there, motionless for a moment, arms hanging limply by his side, and then sank back down onto the bed, elbows propped on his legs and hands folding over the back of his head. Haytham pushed away from the wall, tutting quietly as he did so. These individuals... Their dedication was admirable, but they’d break--they always did.

After all, the Brotherhood had already fallen once by his hands, and their strength had been far greater then.

“See to it that we greet his wife and son when they arrive here,” he said, attention turning to Charles.

“Of course. That should be easy enough to accomplish.”

Lies, more lies, but it got the reaction that he wanted. Much in the same way Connor had fallen for his threat toward his friends and allies, Zenger, too, tensed. His head lifted, and concern was etched into every feature of his face, even if his eyes were obscured.

“Is it not part of your creed? ‘Nothing is true, _everything_ is permitted?’” Haytham smiled despite himself. “Collateral damage, Zenger. Nothing personal.”

“My brothers will keep them safe,” he said, but there was no conviction in his tone. Oh, Haytham had no doubt that Connor had promised to protect those under the wing of the Brotherhood to the best of his ability. To this individual, however, he was gone from the land of the living, and what good was a promise by a dead man?

“You lack the manpower,” Haytham answered smugly. “If you had wanted to protect them, you never should have joined the Assassins. You’ve only yourself to blame.

“Think on which is more important to you, Zenger. What would a good husband--a good father do?” He had no right to comment on being a married man _or_ a father, but that little jab--Haytham couldn’t help but throw it in. “I am not an unreasonable man. I can wait for your answer.”

After giving their prisoner one last look, Haytham stepped back out into the cold with Charles on his heels. “We don’t have the men to spare for that,” the general hissed, low enough so that no one else could hear. “Surely you do not intend to make that threat a reality.”

“Manpower may be lacking, but surely we still have coin to spend. Bribe the harbormasters to watch the ports for us,” he replied; his companion’s expression clouded further. “Charles?”

The general remained silent until they had reached the horses tethered a short distance away. “Would it not be easier to simply beat the answer out of him, Haytham?” That disappointed look--the one he’d first seen earlier that day--had reappeared on his face; Charles _was_ genuinely upset with him about something. “Why waste all these resources on the Assassins? You did not care before.

“You’ve changed. That _boy_ has changed you.”

Haytham frowned, and for a moment, he was struck silent. As he struggled for an answer, though, he felt it--a pair of eyes on his back, and he turned, Eagle Vision activating. Haytham spotted the culprit: a pinprick of red that was gone by the time he raised his spyglass to his eye. For several minutes, he searched the landscape, but at last, he relented, what with Charles demanding answers by his side.

“It’s one of them,” he finally said, gaze still scanning the fields that stretched out beside them. Haytham sighed and turned to Charles. “We move Zenger today. His family takes second priority.

“Prepare the safe house for his arrival. I’ll stay here until you return.”

The general was off with nothing but a curt nod, his horse quickly disappearing out of sight. The men standing guard were beginning to grow curious about what had just happened, and with a sigh, Haytham went to update them on the situation; he just hoped that they would not begin to panic. After all, they had nothing to fear with him here. An arrogant mindset? Perhaps, but the blood that stained his hands was proof enough that he could take care of himself.

Oh, his son’s recruits were skilled, no doubt, but it was only Connor himself that Haytham had trouble with--that he was not certain he could overpower. Still, as he stood there in the cold, he did not think it was the boy out there in the fields, watching and waiting--a predator stalking its prey.

It couldn’t be.


	14. Day Eighty-Four

Nothing happened.

Nothing happened on the trip back to the safe house, and nothing happened as they escorted their prisoner inside. Once, Haytham thought that he had seen a flicker of red out of the corner of his eye, but when he went over to investigate, he found nothing--no footprints, no disturbances to the snow. It was not necessarily a bad thing to be hypervigilant, but he’d be paying for it further down the line.

Since Zenger’s arrival at the Templar headquarters, Haytham had taken to the rooftops at night, keeping a wary eye out for that red pinprick to reappear. When asked, he simply told his subordinates that he saw better at night than any of the others, which was not a lie, but he kept mum about the nature of his unique seeing abilities.

Holding an Assassin with at least one other member of the Brotherhood out on the streets was dangerous, and they’d _need_ the most advance warning they could get. Most men accepted his explanation without a second thought, for in their eyes, he was still their Grand Master. The only one who questioned him was Charles. _Charles_ knew better, and he could not ignore the way the general looked at him with narrowed eyes and a frown.

They spoke in private a few days after Zenger’s move. Charles again brought up his apparent obsession with his son, and they’d argued--argued about what to do with the boy, what was best for the Order. It was easily the worst argument Haytham had gotten into with the man since their first meeting so many years ago, but he’d stood his ground; Charles had, at last, acquiesced, but only just. The general agreed to continue interrogating Zenger in his place and had, grudgingly, promised to avoid using physical force unless absolutely necessary.

It was some weight off his shoulders, but it provided little relief, what with all these other troubles that loomed over him.

Truth be told, it was his worry that drove him to take over the night watch. Haytham dreaded to think that Connor would betray him, but that _fear_ had sunk its claws in deep. Night after night, he waited in the bitter cold, regardless of the sleet, snow, or ice that fell from the heavens; he waited to see the blazing red silhouette of his son storming across the rooftops, out for his blood.

In hindsight, this entire problem could have been resolved if he’d just looked at his son with Eagle Vision prior to his departure, but Haytham had come to a realization since arriving here in New York City: he was not sure he wanted to know the truth. If the boy was the cool blue of an ally, then he would have rejoiced, but what if he was not? What if he remained white or worse, red or gold?

Haytham had been a coward. It would be easier for him to accept the fact that Connor had fled in his absence than to swallow the giant lie that would have made up their curious relationship the past few months. Such softness in personality was unbecoming of him, and he turned his fear into an uncompromising devotion to watching over the safe house.

On more than a few occasions, his brothers had asked that he remain indoors, especially when the weather was unusually brutal, but time and time again, Haytham would refuse; he would keep his vigil no matter the circumstances. The only problem with this was that the morning would always find him chilled to the core, and despite spending the daylight hours sleeping in front of a roaring fire, Haytham could not shake the cold that sank deep into his bones.

And how his head _ached_!

Hour after hour, he would keep Eagle Vision activated, peering into the darkness in hopes of spotting a flash of red, but not once did he see anything. Never before in his life had he used the ability to such an extent, and it was starting to give him quite the headache. Then again, Haytham had to grudgingly admit that he’d also developed a bit of a cough along with a few other symptoms that pointed toward the development of a cold, but he refused to admit to being ill --not when there was such an important task at hand.

That said, tonight proved quite a challenge for Haytham: the aches in his body were worse, he felt cold no matter how much he wore, and his head pounded with a vengeance. To be resuming his watch in such a condition was reckless (too much like the boy, he thought sardonically), but all the same, Haytham still climbed onto the roof and began his rounds, despite his complete and utter lack of energy.

The first few hours passed without incident, as per the norm. The streets were quiet, and down below, the two men posted at the front door could be heard whispering and stamping their feet; on occasion, the yowl of a cat or the sound of a dog barking would break the silence. The skies were overcast, but, to Haytham’s relief, the night was still dry--he was shivering enough without any additional help from the environment.

He had pressed his fingertips to his temples and closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, Haytham saw it: a red spot bobbing up and down in the distance. However, one pinprick of red turned into two, three, four-- _five_ , and he cursed quietly. Haytham whistled low, and the mumbling of the guards immediately ceased; their silence was quickly followed by the urgent rap of knuckles against the door.

Pulling out his spyglass, he studied the on-coming figures: only one wore the white cowl of an Assassin, but while the frame of that individual was too small to be that of his son, the knowledge provided Haytham with little comfort. Desperation and a growing feeling of dread filled him as he stuffed his spyglass into a pocket and took off toward the Assassins. The cold air burned his lungs, and his muscles protested; his limbs felt leaden as he ran and leapt.

The five silhouettes split, each heading in a slightly different direction, but their breakneck speed didn’t not slow. Haytham wondered if they did not know if they had been spotted or if they did not care for stealth now; he hoped that his men would be ready by the time they hit the safe house. He could not think to chase them all--not when the world wavered in front of his eyes and his body protested every move that he made.

Pausing to hide behind a chimney, Haytham slumped against the bricks, pressing a hand to his forehead as he tried to catch his breath; his skin burned beneath his fingertips. With a low growl, he forced himself to focus--to forget the throbbing in his skull, the ache that made him feel weak, the tiredness that plagued him body and soul. This was a battlefield, one that he had voluntarily forced himself onto, and Haytham would not allow himself to fall here--not when Connor’s allegiances remained a mystery to him.

Peering around his hiding spot, he saw the angry glow of a man dressed in a priest’s robes fast approaching his location. As the footfalls drew ever closer, Haytham tensed, and just as the man passed to his left, he made a grab at the Assassin, hoping for a clean kill. His arm was deflected, though, and the man twisted away, Haytham’s fingers losing their grip on his clothes.

Well, so much for getting the job done the _easy_ way.

“You--!” The Assassin never bothered to finish his sentence, instead drawing his blade. Haytham thought he heard a note of surprise and something _else_ in that voice, but he would not have time to think about that now, not when the clash of steel was ringing in his ears. Deflecting the blow with his hidden blade, Haytham took a step back before drawing out his own sword, feeling its heavy weight in his hand.

He lunged, and when he saw his opponent move to block his attack, Haytham changed the angle of his strike, sweeping it to the side and shifting his target from the man’s chest to his arm. He was rewarded with a cry of pain, but his triumph was short lived, as the Assassin retaliated with several savage blows that had him stumbling backwards. Slipping and sliding over to the other side of the roof, he tried to put more distance between them as he panted; his blood pounded in his ears, and Haytham was sure that his heart was going to hammer its way right out of his chest.

Again, he tried to take the offensive, darting in with the aim to strike at the Assassin’s sides, but the man was ready for him this time, deflecting the attack and replying in turn. Cold steel bit into flesh, and Haytham whirled away with a poorly muffled shout, his free hand moving to press into his upper arm. His opponent circled him, the tip of his saber completely and utterly steady.

Haytham wondered whether or not conviction alone would be enough to get him through this.

The Assassin made a lunge at him, but he blocked the blow, albeit barely. Coupling his illness with his fresh wound, he did not have the strength to withstand the ferocity of the strike, and his blade was knocked out of his hands, vanishing somewhere over the edge of the roof and clattering to the ground below. Haytham frowned at this development, but perhaps it was for the best. He’d be quicker with the hidden blade, and the weight of it would be easier for him to manage with the remaining strength that he had. The only problem, of course, was now the Assassin had a rather significant distance advantage, and the only way to resolve that was to move in close.

Springing forward, Haytham feinted to the right before slipping over to the left. He was quick, yes, but not quick enough as he felt his opponent’s sword graze his side through the thick layers of clothing that he wore, but he was rewarded with a groan as he rotated and slammed his fist into the man’s stomach, the blade sinking into flesh. It was the Assassin’s turn to stumble; Haytham followed up his attack with a swift kick that sent the man sprawling.

His aim with the blade was off, though, and he cursed himself; he’d struck too far to the left, missing the liver as he’d originally intended. The Assassin pushed himself back onto his feet, and this time, his grip on his sword wavered. Even so, he still seemed to be faring better than Haytham, who was breathing hard, feeling too cold and too hot at the same time, and battling the lightheadedness that only grew worse as his wounds continued to bleed.

Haytham shook his head lightly as if to clear his thoughts, but his vision only became worse, dimming around the edges. In the distance, he could hear the shouts of men, gunshots, and the clang of metal striking metal; the feeble flicker of candlelight was beginning to reappear in windows across the city as the commotion continued, but hopefully, no one would be foolish enough to come out to investigate.

Though, an interruption would likely be a welcome moment of respite for him at this point.

With a roar, the Assassin ran at him, a fearsome sight to behold--covered in blood and sweat, eyes burning with a fire he recognized as the unbanked desire for revenge. Haytham caught the edge of the blade with his own, but step by step, he was forced backwards until the heel of one foot stood on nothing but air. They were too far up for him to survive this fall, and there were no opportunities for a soft landing in sight; Haytham fought back with the desperation of a man on the verge of death, but he couldn’t push the Assassin away, couldn’t stir up the strength necessary despite the adrenaline rushing through his veins.

If he thought about it, this was a rather suiting way for him to die: in the defense of his ideals, on the battlefield, and at the hands of an Assassin. He would have preferred to have put up a better fight, but there was still the chance to take his opponent with him; it would only take a well-timed grab, and they’d both be tumbling over the edge. His life was not the best, filled with bloodshed and grief as it was, but there was nothing he was ashamed of, nothing he regretted--well, _almost_.

There was still the matter of his son. It was _always_ his son.

Haytham grunted, muscles screaming in agony, and he leaned as much of his weight toward his aggressor as he could before closing a fist around the man’s collar. His right arm buckled without the support of the left, but Haytham held on, breaths coming in harsh pants. A grim smile curled his lips, and he dared the Assassin to do his worst, testing the man. How badly did he want him dead? “Go on then,” he hissed. “Push.”

There was a moment of hesitation, and that’s all Haytham needed. He twisted and retracted his hidden blade, yelling in pain as the Assassin’s sword finally connected with flesh, cutting deep into his shoulder. His nerves were on fire, his body on the verge of collapse, but he shoved the man with his good shoulder, putting all of his weight and what remained of his strength behind the movement. Surprised by this course of action, the Assassin stumbled back, and Haytham engaged his other hidden blade, the dagger sliding out into his palm. He lashed out blindly, his vision obscuring from pain and blood loss, but when his blade met nothing but air, Haytham crumpled, body giving out at last.

As his vision faded, the final thing he saw was a blue blur engaging the Assassin. Haytham did not wonder who that individual was, though, did not give him a second thought. No, his mind was focused on something else entirely, something far from the battlefield: on the boy, the brat, the thorn in his side.

\--On his son.


	15. Day One Hundred and Six

Haytham had been told that the worst was over, and while his body still ached from the injuries inflicted upon him and the ravages of the disease--pneumonia, the doctor had said--still plagued him, he felt a new sense of invigoration having challenged death and winning. This was not the first time (and likely not the last) that he would be faced with his own mortality, and now, Haytham sought to make it so that he would have no regrets when his end finally came.

Still, he remained bedridden at this time, and while his _mind_ had already decided what to do next, his body was not quite up to the challenge. It left Haytham feeling a touch disgruntled, but perhaps it was for the best. This way, he’d have time to digest the happenings of that night, the repercussions it held for the Order, and to formulate the best plan to accomplish his goals.

Zenger had been freed during the raid, which had left the safe house ablaze, but now all the Assassins would think that their beloved leader was dead. The Brotherhood of old would not have suffered so greatly from such a loss, as Achilles, while a key figure, had made sure to instill a certain sort of independence in his men. Connor, on the other hand, was an effective leader, but beyond the little group he had personally collected, they had not grown--a sign that they still relied all too heavily on the one individual. The thought that Davenport might still try to raise the Brotherhood did cross his mind, but what could a crippled old man like him do? Haytham wouldn’t be surprised if he was on his deathbed, if not gone from this world already...

Really, it was just Connor’s presence as a leader that was important. And with him effectively gone? Well, it was only a matter of time before they collapsed in on themselves. All _he_ had to do was nudge them in the right direction.

To add to his satisfaction, Haytham had received reports that Duncan Little, the man whom he could blame for the stinging pain in his shoulder, had also been badly wounded, even if he’d managed to flee the scene. Two others, Colley and Chapheau, had been thrown into Bridewell Prison for arson, and if he remembered correctly, that meant the Assassins were down to two able-bodied members now.

With their numbers dwindling, Haytham wondered what acts of desperation would they resort to, if any at all. Achilles had surrendered quietly enough, and while he did occasionally wonder if his benevolence had hurt the Order in the long run, allowing the old Assassin to live had never particularly troubled him. Perhaps this new generation would follow in the man’s footsteps; there wasn’t an actual _need_ for more bloodshed, even if others would argue differently.

Others being _Charles_ for the most part.

It was Charles who had saved him that night; it was Charles who had personally seen to transporting him from the ruins of the safe house to their new quarters; it was Charles who watched over him when the doctor was away. For all the things that he _had_ done and continued to do, though, Haytham could no longer say that he felt that he was sitting in the presence of a friend.

The atmosphere that surrounded them had taken on a most frigid nature, and for all intensive purposes, the general felt like a prison warden to him, keeping an eye on his prisoner so that he would not escape--not that Haytham would even be capable of it at this point. It was unpleasant, and any chances he took to strike up a conversation were ended with curt answers and a cold look.

He could barely take solace in the fact that Charles’ aura remained a calm and quiet blue.

Strangely, though, the general had also been the one to deliver him his letters, even if he looked as if he’d rather be shoveling manure than handling the pieces of paper. Haytham could only assume that because Charles was still, technically speaking, his right-hand man that people assumed his mail should be delivered through him, but such a practice only strained their relationship further. It took no imagination at all to figure out whom these letters were from, and by this point, it was all too easy to tell that Charles loathed to think of his son being on anything remotely close to on good terms with his father.

Delivery issues aside, though, Haytham liked the fact that he’d been written to. Delayed though the missives were now, Mrs. Langley had replied to his correspondence some time ago, but it was quite a bit longer before Haytham had been in any state to _read_ the blasted things. She had talked about such inane items like the weather and gossip between the staff, and, of course, she’d also mentioned how the boy was quite keen on writing him in return.

\--Which had been the start of a series of notes (they were too short to really be counted as proper _letters_ ) from Connor. The first lambasted his apparent inability to write to _him_ , instead of through the maid. The second? There was but a single line demanding to know when he would be back. The third, fourth, and fifth were of the same ilk, though they did grow increasingly agitated as time wore on.

Haytham thought it was endearing-- _cute_ , almost--that the boy was becoming upset because of him and made it a clear point to not write back, even now that he physically could. After all, he certainly didn’t want Connor to _stop_ writing these notes to him; the desperation in them was all too appealing.

Amusement factor aside, it really _was_ a shame that these letters had not reached him sooner, for it was in the dates scribbled in the corners that Haytham found a great source of comfort. It didn’t matter if Connor’s scrawl was as hideous as they came, not when his notes told him that he’d still been at home when the raid on the safe house had occurred; Connor was not one of the instigators--he had not been one of the red silhouettes on the roofs that night.

It would be Charles, of course, to challenge him on this though.

The general came in to his quarters bright and early this morning and took a seat in his usual spot by the window, eyes scanning the street outside, as if he were waiting for something to happen. Charles had become increasingly worried--paranoid--since the attack, and it showed even now: his shoulders hunched a little, his gaze darted back and forth, his hands drummed against the armrest, and he worried his bottom lip between his teeth.

“That boy of yours is a liar,” he finally said when Haytham had tried for the millionth time to stop him from fretting. The general gestured at the small stack of letters on the bedside table, eyes narrowing at them as if they were dangerous. “It was he who plotted this. That Assassin may not have been here, but I know it was him.”

“Such distrust, Charles. I assure you, Connor is not behind all of this--”

“How do you know? How do you know that he has not pulled the wool over your eyes?”

“Now see here, Charles. That is an insult to me and--”

Again, Charles cut him off; he stood in his agitation and approached the bed. Unable to help himself, Haytham tensed. “You are _besotted_ with him. Can you not see that? You allow yourself to be blinded by this new found _family_ of yours, and he does as he pleases.

“I cannot stand for that, Haytham. I will not allow it.”

Haytham fell silent then, lips pressed into a thin, hard line. Even if Charles did not know the true nature of the relationship that he had with his son, the words that the man was spewing right now were completely and utterly inappropriate to be said to _him_ , the Grand Master. When he spoke next, his voice was cold. “Charles, are you _threatening_ me?”

“I am merely reminding you of your duties.”

“Then allow me to remind _you_ that speaking to me in such a manner will not bode well for your future in the Order.”

The general’s expression did not change; such threats, apparently, had no effect on the man. “Do not think your title gives you protection from retribution.”

“Duly noted,” he bit out. Haytham felt thoroughly rankled now, but he had no intention of letting this individual push him around. Charles would have to do better than this to intimidate him-- _much_ better. And to think that this man once had been his most fervent and loyal supporter! “Now is there anything else you need from me, or do you intend to loom over me for the remainder of the day?”

“I’ve another letter for you. Nothing else.” The general produced a folded piece of paper from inside his coat, and Haytham took it, snatching it out of Charles’ hand.

“You have my thanks.”

“Of course.”

All sincerity was gone from their speech, and today, Charles would not stay with him. Indeed, today would mark the last day that the general would visit him here in New York City, but Haytham felt no sorrow for this loss. His top priority now was to become well enough to leave this place.

A storm was coming, and he needed to be ready.


	16. Day One Hundred and Thirty-Eight

The doctor had demanded that he relax and remain in a stress-free environment to speed his recovery, but Haytham found the remainder of his stay in New York City to largely be the opposite. Since that conversation with Charles, he questioned the loyalty of every single individual who entered his room, and to his dismay, his worry was not unfounded. Following the argument, the number of people who had shifted from a blue aura to a white one grew, even if their outward demeanor had not changed significantly.

Perhaps he should have expected this, given how almost all of the men stationed in the city had been recruited by the general, but Haytham still found all of this very disturbing. Sadly, he did not really have anyone to blame but himself: his own absences, either spent bedridden or preoccupied with Connor’s education, meant that Charles had become the de facto leader of the Order. This shift in power had Haytham itching to increase his own influence, but stuck here, ill as he was, made it difficult.

By the time he was finally ready to depart, he’d largely been shuffled off to the side, and all news about the Order seemed to come to him as an afterthought. Indeed, the only individual who seemed to truly remember and _care_ that he was still stuck here was the lad who continued to deliver his letters--Haytham could not help but feel a bit pathetic that his only retainer was a boy younger than his own son though.

He could not understand how such an individual had come to join the Order to begin with. His assistant was scrawny and always seemed to have his head in the clouds; he had no ambition whatsoever--even _Hickey_ had aspired to greater goals than this boy, perverse they might have been. Still, beggars could not be choosers, so Haytham received his help with grudging gratefulness.

A dozen more letters found their way to his hands by the time the doctor deemed him fit to travel, and another five arrived prior to his actual departure. Haytham had no doubt that more would eventually find their way here, so as he took leave of the city, he instructed the lad to bring the letters to the Kenway home in several weeks’ time instead of simply disposing of them.

He refused to acknowledge his own sentimentality or the reason why he wanted to keep the things.

No, Haytham instead opted to focus on how to best bolster his support amongst his Templar brothers. Over and over again, his thoughts would, sardonically, turn to his son, and by the time his journey home had neared its end, Haytham had no doubts that his continued success as Grand Master relied on the boy’s conversion. He still hoped that his partnership with Charles could be repaired, but his outlook was grim.

And if that were the case, well, he’d need a new right-hand man, and who else could be better than Connor?

Of course, he needed to confirm the boy’s allegiances first. Haytham had felt such a keen sense of regret over the matter during the fight with Little, and he endeavored to not make the same mistake twice. If Connor still remained a stubborn red, gold, or white, it simply meant that he would have to try harder. Killing the boy was no longer a real option--Haytham _needed_ him, alive and by his side.

With this thought in mind, he sighed and rapped his knuckles against the door, lifting his gaze to meet the sight of a weeping Mrs. Langley standing in the doorway. “Master Kenway! Oh, Master Kenway! We had not received any word from you for so long and were so worried!” she cried as she threw her arms around him, and Haytham stared at her, shocked, before gently patting her shoulders. When she at last took a step back, Mrs. Langley dabbed at her eyes with a corner of her apron and put on a teary smile. “Oh, sir, welcome home! Please. Please, do come inside.”

Two steps into the foyer, and the sound of thundering footsteps could be heard--three more saw Connor standing, stunned, at the bottom of the stairs. They simply stared at each other for a moment, and then the boy’s expression twisted into something that was half anger and half relief. Haytham wasn’t really quite sure if his son wanted to hit him (inadvisable in front of Mrs. Langley) or pull him into an embrace (also inadvisable).

“Father.” It came out as a rather unbecoming croak, and Haytham smirked, crossing what distance remained between them and pressing a hand to the boy’s shoulder. Perhaps it had been a touch too cruel to leave those in his household in the dark like he had, but he soaked up his homecoming and relished the looks of relief on their faces.

“Mrs. Langley, Connor and I have some catching up to do,” he said, his gaze never leaving his son’s.

The maid laughed, her voice still a note or two higher than usual from her tears. “Shall I bring some tea up?”

There was a moment’s pause, and his fingers curled a little tighter. “No, I don’t think that’ll be necessary.” Haytham looked over his shoulder at her. “We’ll take care of food and drink ourselves tonight.”

Mrs. Langley gave him a bit of a confused look but curtsied and excused herself, mumbling something about putting away books as she disappeared around a corner. Alone now in the foyer, Haytham returned his attention to his son. “Such a dour expression on your face. Missed me, have you?”

“You lied. You never wrote.”

“Preposterous. I wrote to Mrs. Langley.”

“To _me_.” Strong hands fisted themselves in the lapels of his jacket, and Haytham lifted his eyebrows; Connor let go, arms falling lamely to his sides and chin dipping toward the ground. “I am sorry, father.”

He’d missed this--missed this _dearly_ ; the quiet obedience the boy demonstrated toward him, the deference he paid him, warmed and empowered him all over again. The events in New York City had left him feeling so very out of sorts, had left him feeling strangely _powerless_ , but now that he was home, everything fell right back into place. All was well with the world again, and it renewed his spirits, renewed his hopes that he could mold the world into what he wanted, what he _desired_.

“Let’s discuss this in private, shall we? My bedchambers perhaps?” he asked, hand slipping from Connor’s shoulder to his elbow. Brown eyes lifted to meet his own, almost disbelieving, but there was the slightest nod; Haytham smiled. “Excellent.”

His room, as it turned out, remained much the same as he had left it. He could tell that Mrs. Langley had been here, what with the complete and utter lack of any dust, but beyond that, nothing was out of place and nothing was amiss. His personal journals remained on the shelf, his letters from various Templar agents were still neatly stacked in their box, and his small collection of quills had not moved from where he’d placed them on his desk.

“Did you do as I asked while I was away?” Haytham glanced over at the boy as he removed his hat and cloak, his bracers and coat; a warm fire roared in the fireplace, and the light it threw across the room highlighted the faint pink dusting across the boy’s cheeks.

“I did, and I--”

“That’s all I asked, Connor.” The boy clamped his mouth shut. “If you’ve lied to me, know that I will find out, but I trust that you will not cause me any more problems than you have.”

A look of indignation swept across his son’s features, and this time, he _did_ protest. “I have done nothing to earn your ire. It is you who should be apologizing for causing me such worry.”

“I should have killed you by now--at least, that is what Charles has been telling me from the start,” he replied, stepping closer to the boy and smoothing his hands over his shoulders; Connor’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment-- _beautiful_. “I’ve granted you clemency, and I’ve received nothing but flack in return.”

“That is a matter between you and the Templars. I take no part in your quarrels.”

“Oh?” The boy still did not align with him then, but perhaps he should not have been surprised. Connor had been left to his own devices for so long; Haytham should be more than delighted that the boy was even still _here_. It was at that moment, that moment of silent gratitude, that he looked at the boy with his second sight, looked at the boy with anxiety clenching at his chest.

Connor was a vibrant blue in his eyes, and Haytham could feel the weight simply slide off his shoulders. Relief swelled within him; he wondered if this was how Mrs. Langley and his son had felt when he’d just shown up on the doorstep, all but coming back from the dead. Haytham savored the feeling of satisfaction for a moment before allowing a small smile to pull at his lips, his voice teasing now.

“You’ve been a handful to work with as well.”

“I am nothing but appreciative of all your efforts.”

Appreciative? Haytham tugged at the neckpiece the boy wore, noted the way Connor’s hands closed and opened at his sides, as if they wanted nothing better than to touch. Given all the separation that they had gone through, all the _worry_ he’d suffered, he would have liked nothing better, but alas, he had to make a point here, as he did with all their meetings. Perhaps it was wrong that even now, in their most intimate moments, there was a second meaning to every touch, every word he said.

He had trust, but now he had to apply control-- _dominance_. Never again did he want to worry about Connor running off; once was enough.

Haytham leaned in, his breath hot against his son’s skin. “Then put that mouth of yours to better use and prove it to me.”

Beneath his fingertips, he could feel the shiver that ran through his son’s body, and then the boy responded with a low, “Yes, father.”

Connor sank to his knees, hands braced against his hips, and Haytham narrowed his eyes as he nuzzled his groin, making soft, appreciative sounds as he did so. The boy dragged his tongue over the front of his breeches, moaned as he placed an open-mouthed kiss against the wet streak. Haytham wet his lips with his tongue as he watched, and already, he could feel his pulse quicken, could feel his cock stirring to attention.

The boy’s hand came to cup his balls, giving them a rough squeeze that made his breath hitch, and Connor’s mouth continued to lavish attention on the hardening line of his erection, nosing it in turn. Haytham tangled a hand in his son’s hair and hissed, low, as the boy turned his attention toward the tip, thoroughly wetting his breeches with his mouth as he did so.

He allowed his son to do as he pleased, but when Connor made no attempts to take this any further, Haytham took matters into his own hands and tugged on the boy’s hair; they’d never get to the point at the rate Connor was going at. “Up. _Up_ ,” he rasped. Haytham regretted losing that heat against his groin, but such a loss was inevitable and for the best; after all, it’d only get better from here. “Strip. Quickly now.”

Connor dragged the back of his hand over his lips and complied silently, his movements rough but efficient. He peeled off of his coat and his waistcoat; Connor tugged his shirt out of his pants and then over his head, and Haytham could not stop himself from reaching out to touch warm skin, powerful muscles. He felt them flex beneath his fingertips as the boy continued to undress, undoing the ties of his breeches, but at last, Haytham was forced to cease his explorations when Connor bent to remove the remainder of his clothing; his hand rested on the curve of his shoulder, nails digging faint half-crescent shapes into his skin.

It was hardly the first time he’d ever seen his son in the nude, but perhaps in his absence, Haytham had forgotten what a marvelous specimen of humanity he was. Connor had always been a bit more heavily built than him--broader shoulders, a thicker body, but he carried himself with such grace that one could almost forget the _power_ to be found coiled within its core.

And to think, he would be making the boy’s body his own--in more ways than one, he hoped.

Haytham took a small step back and then made a sweeping gesture down his body. “Go on,” he said, voice dark with lust. “ _Appreciate me_.”

A flush crept across Connor’s cheeks, and Haytham could not help but allow his eyes to slide shut at the first press of lips against his neck. Deft fingers worked open his waistcoat before slipping it off his shoulders; he tutted quietly as it fell to the floor, but there was no heat in his complaint--indeed, Haytham did not fuss at all as Connor proceeded to drop his shirt on the floor.

This might have been because the boy decided to apply his mouth to his chest, though, dragging his tongue over his collar bones, around his nipples; one hand ghosted over the bandages still wrapped tightly around his shoulder, the touch almost apologetic. Connor sank to his knees once more, pressing kisses to his abdomen, and at last-- _at last_ , he worked his breeches down, exposing his cock. A shiver ran down his spine, and Haytham could not contain the low growl that slipped past his lips as Connor took him in his mouth.

His son had not, it seemed, forgotten how to pleasure him in his absence.

Mouth and hands worked in concert. Connor took him deep, pleasured him with long fingers when he didn’t; his tongue dragged a path from root to tip, teased his slit. He lapped at his balls, toyed with them with calloused fingertips. By the time the boy had worked his clothing down to his knees, his cock was spit-slick, and Connor gave it one final lick before turning his attention to his boots.

Haytham took himself in hand then, and his son moaned at the sight of it; he chuckled and ran his fingertips over Connor’s brow. “So desperate,” he muttered, smirking all the while. “Best hurry then, lest I decide that you aren’t worth my attentions any more.”

This was a complete and utter lie, of course, but it did make the boy finish undressing him with great haste. Task completed, Connor remained on his knees and turned his gaze upwards toward his father, face flushed and pupils blown. Haytham cupped his cheek and then jerked his head toward the bed. “On your knees, if you would be so kind.”

He watched his son rise in silence, and for a moment, it looked as if Connor was going to try for a kiss. He lingered, but before Haytham could reprimand him, he’d turned away, bare feet padding across the floor. Haytham nodded his approval and then went over to his desk, quickly removing a vial of oil.

“If we are to make this a more common practice, I may have to invest in some other oils,” he said, joining the boy on the bed. Connor had his hands braced on the headboard, and he looked over his shoulder, puzzled.

“Is there something wrong with the one you have in your hands?”

Haytham smiled, running his hand over the curve of Connor’s arse, before shaking his head; goosebumps formed beneath his fingertips. “I’m not going to poison you, boy. Such... _subtle_ methods of delivering death are not my forte. I thought you would have figured that out by now.”

“That... That was not what I was implying,” Connor replied, a slight note of hurt entering his tone; his expression was apologetic. It was almost as if his son was worried that if he didn’t keep him pleased that he would disappear again, slipping away like sand between his fingers. Haytham obviously had no intention of doing so, but he certainly wouldn’t say no to this sort of obedience, to this sort of docile behavior.

“Of course not.” He uncorked the bottle and allowed the fluid to flow down the cleft of Connor’s arse, over his balls; Haytham smeared his fingers in it, pleased with how quickly it warmed. “There are simply better scents to be enjoyed, and I’d rather save this oil for my blades.

“Now, _relax_.”

Whatever Connor intended to say next died on his lips as he whined at the sensation of Haytham slipping a single finger into him. Every muscle in that powerful body was drawn taut, and the boy shifted, trying to get over the odd feeling of intrusion. Haytham waited as patiently as he could, but to his surprise, it would be the boy who demanded more and threw caution to the wind.

“Another,” his son said, a low growl that resonated from deep within his chest. Haytham lifted his eyebrows, a touch amused, and did as he was told, withdrawing his finger, only to add one more. Connor’s hands tightened around the headboard all over again, but Haytham pressed onwards this time, scissoring his fingers and thrusting into the tight clench of muscle.

“Another!”

“So soon? Being a touchy hasty, aren’t we?” he asked, but again, Haytham conceded with a smile when the boy started cursing him in his native tongue. Three digits forced a moan from Connor’s lips, and he bowed his head, body dropping towards the bed as he spread his knees wider. Sweat sheened his skin; precum dripped onto the sheets, mingling with the oil already there.

Connor’s breath would catch whenever Haytham brushed against that special spot within him, and before long, he had his son making the prettiest sounds he’d ever heard, sounds that made his own cock ache and twitch with need. With the way the boy was fucking himself on his fingers, Haytham had no doubt in his mind that Connor could climax this way, and while there was something terribly erotic about that idea, he’d waited far too long for this, waited far too long to finally claim the boy as _his_ , to let him go down that path.

He removed his fingers, and Connor snarled at the loss, throwing a look over his shoulder--a look reminiscent of a wild beast lashing out at its captor. Haytham settled his weight over the boy, biting none too gently at his shoulder; it earned him a low growl and more bared teeth. “Is it only my fingers that you wanted?” he asked, rocking his hips against Connor so that his cock slipped against the cleft of his arse. “I seem to recall you complaining that I only ever used my hands...”

Beneath him, the boy trembled, as if the very idea of being taken would send him over the edge, and Haytham was quick to get a hand around the base of Connor’s cock. He nipped sharply at his son’s neck, laved at abused skin with his tongue, and then ground his hips against the boy’s backside once more. “So what is it you want? Are you satisfied with my hand, or do you want more?”

Connor pushed back against him, his voice raw with need. “More. _Please_.”

“Good boy,” Haytham purred before righting himself, fingernails scoring his son’s skin as he dragged his hands back to settle on his hips. This moment was the result of months of work, and he could not help but consider this a triumph on his part. Connor _wanted_ this, _wanted_ him, and as twisted as their relationship had become--how very taboo it was--the boy was here for him, an eager and willing participant.

\--A participant who was growing more impatient with every second that ticked by, if that growl was anything to go by.

Haytham slapped Connor’s arse in response and grabbed the bottle of oil, slicking his cock, before lining himself up at the boy’s hole. Bracing one hand against his hip, Haytham pressed forward, earning himself a stuttering moan from his son, whose knuckles were now bone-white as he clenched at the headboard. Connor shifted restlessly beneath him, and Haytham had to grit his teeth-- _heavens_ , the boy was tight.

“Relax!” he hissed, and his son keened beneath him before forcing himself to take several deep breaths. Haytham panted and ran a trembling hand down Connor’s side, muttering incoherent words of encouragement as he slowly but surely sank deeper into the boy. For all his hopes of dragging this out, he was not entirely sure he’d be able to last, not when Connor clenched so wonderfully around him, not when his son was making sounds that sent shivers of pleasure straight to his groin.

When he was fully seated within the boy, Haytham paused and reached around Connor’s waist to take his flagging erection in hand. He pressed kisses to his son’s back, shoulders, and neck as he waited, and sure enough, under his careful attention and ministrations, the boy’s interest returned, resulting in a ginger roll of the hips.

Haytham hummed appreciatively and lapped at the shell of Connor’s ear, returning the favor by grinding against his son. Beneath him, the boy moaned, and when he finally spoke, his voice could only be described as desperate--an unashamed plea for _more, more, more_. With that sort of request, how could Haytham even think of refusing? He nipped the boy’s shoulder once more and began to thrust in earnest, each move of the hips forcing a gasp, a groan, or a hiss past his son’s lips.

Their pace quickened, driven by a mutual need to find completion--something both of them had been starved of for so long. The air was thick with the smell of sex; the sheets beneath them were rumpled and dirtied. Haytham’s hands had returned to their place on the boy’s hips, fingers digging into sweat-slicked skin, and his grip only grew rougher as he felt that all-too-familiar pressure low in his belly.

“Roll over,” he commanded as he withdrew suddenly, and Connor howled in frustration. He looked over his shoulder, about to demand an answer as to why and why _now_ , but Haytham already had a hand closed around his arm and was tugging, pulling, yanking. It was, to be honest, a completely and utterly inappropriate use of his grappling skills, and yet, he couldn’t bring himself to give a damn as he forced Connor onto his back and slid back home in one easy movement.

The action caused the boy to throw his head back against the pillows with a moan, and his hips jerked to meet the press of Haytham’s. Hands free, he took his son’s legs and hooked them over his shoulders before pressing forward, all but bending him in half; Connor’s toes _curled_ as he sank even deeper than before, breath exiting his lungs with a hiss.

With one hand clutching at the sheets, the boy snaked the other down his body to close around his cock, but Haytham slapped it away with a growl. Connor stared at his father, momentarily dumbfounded, and then Haytham’s lips cracked into an arrogant smile. “Mine,” he said quietly, his tone dark and possessive. “Is that understood?”

The confused expression melted away into another of pleasure as Haytham thrusted once more, and Connor groaned before wetting his lips with his tongue. He managed a slight nod and then a strangled, “ _Yes!_ ”--and that’s what it took to send Haytham toppling over the precipice, to send him reeling as his release took him and stole his senses for one long, blissful moment.

What eventually called him back was the soft, needy voice of his son and two hands clutching at his shoulders. Haytham opened eyes he had not realized he’d closed and lazily rocked against the boy, eliciting a most delectable whimper from him. He all but purred in contentment and then touched a hand to Connor’s erection, skating his fingertips across heated skin.

“Your... _cooperation_ today is much appreciated,” he murmured, voice still rough around the edges, but some of his usual eloquence was returning. Haytham circled his fingers around the shaft and began to stroke; it took but a few harsh tugs, and Connor climaxed at last, body crumpling in an exhausted heap against the bed as he finished. When he finally withdrew, Haytham dipped a finger inside his hole and watched his son twitch weakly against the sheets.

For a brief moment, he wondered if he’d been too rough on the boy, given that it was his first time, but when Connor’s hand came to join his own, smearing semen over his skin, Haytham decided that his worries were unfounded. He allowed himself a little smile, pleased at how so much of the tension from his body was gone now--how _at peace_ he was, and it warmed him, heart and soul, to see a slight quirk of the lips upon his son’s face as well.

Haytham had found his center, and the world of opportunity had opened up to him once more.


	17. Day One Hundred and Thirty-Nine

Dawn’s first light found Haytham with another person in his bed. It was a practice that, in all truth and honesty, did not happen all that often, as he was the sort of individual who often had his partners leave immediately after the act, if he himself was not the one departing the scene. Staying the night suggested intimacy and closeness--two items that Haytham had often shied away from.

They suggested a certain degree of willingness to open up to others, to _trust_ \--something Haytham found most difficult to do.

He wondered now, though, whether he had lost out on a great many opportunities in the past, as he could not help but think Connor a beautiful sight in the morning--so very at ease and without a single hint of tension in his body. The boy slept on his belly with his arms tucked beneath his pillow, long hair spilling over his shoulders; his skin was peppered with the signs of their reunion the night before: bruises, scratches, bite marks. Haytham allowed himself a faint smile before reaching over, trailing his fingertips over a particularly savage red streak down the boy’s side.

His son roused easily, cracking open one dark eye, before pushing himself up onto his elbows with a slow and sleepy exhale. He regarded his father with a drowsy look, and even after he scrubbed his face with his hand, Connor appeared no more awake than before. “Good morning, father.”

“You awaken later than I remember. Gotten lazy in my absence, have you?”

A frown pulled at the boy’s lips, like he was displeased with being chided like a child. “I have not,” he replied, twisting into a seated position. Try as he might to avoid it, Haytham couldn’t stop himself from sweeping his eyes down Connor’s front; his son didn’t seem to notice. “It is not as if you woke much earlier than I. Why must you be so disagreeable?”

“Were you expecting some sort of special treatment because of what happened last night? Come now, Connor. Surely you know me better than that,” Haytham answered as he shifted to crawl out of bed. Truth be told, the idea of lingering a while longer was _very_ tempting (as was the thought of showing the boy just what sort of special treatment he _was_ willing to put out), but there were Templar matters to be handled--namely, the rebuilding of his own influence as Grand Master; the longer he waited, the less authority he would retain. While his son now appeared to be an ally, Haytham rather doubted that this extended to matters of the Order.

In this regard, the burden was still his to bear.

Before his feet could even touch the floor, though, a hand closed around his forearm, yanking him back against the mattress with a huff, and then Connor was hovering above him, every last trace of sleepiness gone from his expression, the set of his body. Haytham arched a brow at him, unsure of whether this was going to lead to something very pleasant or very _un_ pleasant. “Yes?”

“Why must you leave so quickly?” he asked, not releasing his hold on Haytham’s arm; his expression was surprisingly soft--wanting. “We did not have time to converse yesterday.”

“We exchanged a few words, if I remember correctly, or are you dissatisfied with what we did? You seemed more than a little eager last night.”

“I--” His face flushed, but Connor shook his head. “That is not what I meant,” the boy continued, his grip tightening. The look on his face shifted into one of concern, and it was at that moment that Haytham knew that this conversation was not going to go where he wanted it to. “Where have you been? What have you been doing? Have you not thought of the worry you caused us? Your servants? _Myself_? We thought you hurt-- _dead_.”

“You forget who I am, boy,” Haytham replied flippantly, even if he could sense Connor’s growing agitation. He tried to feign indifference, the tilt of his chin arrogant. Maybe he had been foolish to think that he could avoid talking about this, but the previous night had given him hope. After all, Connor hadn’t asked about his travels yesterday. That said, Haytham didn’t exactly give him the opportunity... “I’ve survived this long. I won’t be taken down so easily.”

“Then what of these bandages?” His son grabbed his injured shoulder with his free hand and _squeezed_ , forcing a grimace onto Haytham’s face and a hiss past his lips. “Did your conversations with Lee result in _this_? Has your relationship with me caused your brethren to turn their backs on you?” Connor let go, planting his hand beside his father’s head instead. “I have done all that you bid of me,” he said, and then there was a break in his voice--a certain desperation that made Haytham’s heart clench. “Why do you not trust me? What more must I do?

“How much more must I give so that you will be open with me?”

“Connor, I...” The words died on his lips, and Haytham sighed. It was as if the boy was actively _trying_ to ruin the mood. He would have been _more_ than willing to kill a few more hours in the privacy of his bedchambers given the proper incentive, but as it stood, Haytham wanted to leave all the more. It didn’t help that with his son confronting him now, it was becoming more difficult to discern whether or not Connor had obliged him last night because of mutual desire or if it was simply an effort to appease him.

“Are you sure you wish to know?” he finally asked, his tone thoroughly reflecting his souring mood. It would have been all too easy to lie, but now that he had been cornered like this, he had a feeling that no good would come from him not telling the truth. This was a risk he had to take, much as it pained him; Haytham merely hoped that his choice would not cause him greater regret in the future.

“Tell me.” His son’s voice still carried a touch of hurt, like he knew all too well what he was asking, but beneath that, there was no threat, no real aggression. When Haytham remained silent, Connor gently pressed a kiss to his father’s lips--an action he didn’t fight. “Please.”

And so, Haytham started to talk.

At first, he spoke haltingly, clearly harassed, but when Connor did nothing save for listen quietly, his words came more easily. He related the news of Zenger’s capture and his interrogation. Haytham discussed how he’d spotted an Assassin one day and of the raid that followed; he commented on the consequences--on how only two of Connor’s allies remained free and able-bodied. He touched on his own recovery and how it’d delayed his return. Haytham made no mention of his damaged relationship with Charles or the worry and anxiety he’d felt when he had thought that Connor had rejoined his brothers.

Once or twice, his son stopped him for clarification, his voice quiet, and Haytham obliged. He was keenly aware of every little twitch of muscle in the boy’s face, realized that a single word that spilled past his lips could result in a fist to his face or fingers curled tight around his throat, but as the minutes ticked by, nothing changed--an uncomfortable peace continued to reign.

The decided lack of violence by the end of his monologue was so stunning that his finish felt, admittedly, quite lame. Haytham’s mind had been filling with arguments and counter-arguments to justify his actions, but not once did he have to use them; Connor simply rolled off to the side and stared at the ceiling, apparently lost in his own thoughts.

Haytham wondered if the boy was devising plans on how to best rescue his allies.

Not sure whether to be pleased or disgruntled that their one-sided conversation had ended this way, Haytham curled into a sitting position, legs dangling off the side of the bed. Behind him, he could feel the mattress dip, and his body tensed; this was it--this was the inevitable result of his actions. Haytham twisted to confront his son, his voice sharp and his tone unrepentantly bitter. “Do not expect me to apologize for what I have done.”

“You should have let me come with you,” was the only answer he got; Connor’s expression remained calm--almost infuriatingly so. There was no heat, no anger in his gaze, and this only fueled his own irritation all the more; he much preferred it when the situation was reversed. Frowning, Haytham narrowed his eyes at the boy.

That statement didn’t make any sense. What good could Connor have done him in New York City? They had already discussed this before his departure. In fact, the boy had uttered those exact words the night before he had left, hadn’t he? He counted his son an ally now--still did despite the words that had just transpired between them--but to strike down his own brethren? Haytham scoffed at the idea, a scathing look of reproach crossing his features. “And what would you have done, Connor? Stayed our blades? Called for peace? A truce between our opposing factions?”

Haytham seemed to be all too talented at ruining his own plans. He was going to lose his son all over again; he could tell by the way the boy’s gaze dropped toward his hands, by the way he kept silent. First, it had been the incident with Washington, and now? Now there was this. He was provoking Connor, goading him, reminding him all too cruelly of how fragile their relationship was--how easily it could be broken.

“Your idealism is heartwarming, but it will not work on the battlefield,” he continued. “Such emotions will not stop a blade or shield an individual from a blow.”

“You misunderstand me.” Those three words were said quickly, as if Connor was in a hurry to correct Haytham’s mistake. Even with the rush, though, there was a surprising amount of emotion, of _warmth_ , behind those words, and Haytham cocked his head, momentarily puzzled by such a response. With the way he spoke now, it would almost seem as if his son understood his distress and sought to relieve him of his troubles.

“Is it so unreasonable for me to care for you as I care for my brothers? While I do not approve of what you have done to them, it is not only their well-being that I worry about.” A strong hand settled on his bad shoulder, but this time, the touch was gentle. “You may be a Templar, but you are my father as well.”

Connor was meeting his gaze again, and this time, it was _he_ who faltered and had to look away; Haytham couldn’t handle the brutal honesty he found in the boy’s eyes. The expression he found there spoke of gratitude, of thanks. Had his openness been something so desired to warrant such a look? “I thought my worry was evident to you already.”

At that, the boy looked a touch embarrassed, his gaze drifting sidewards as a faint flush crossed his cheeks. Stunned, Haytham could not quite believe his good fortune at how _well_ this conversation resolved itself, and at last, he allowed a faint smile to pull at his lips. His son still spoke of the Assassins, still worried about them, but that he would be thought of as highly as them after all that had happened... Well, this was pleasant news indeed.

Haytham proceeded to reach over and fist Connor’s hair, dragging him over for a brief kiss--one that had his son’s eyes fluttering in surprise; it would be the first time he had initiated such an action after all. The boy parted his lips immediately, reciprocating the kiss with enthusiasm, and before long, he was leaning against his father, their fingers locking against the sheets.

“I could’ve done with a dozen or more letters,” he murmured against soft lips, his teasing tone returning now that the perceived threat had passed. “Considering your lousy compositional skills, I found it difficult to discern the message behind your correspondences.

“It would seem my work with you is not yet complete.”

“Your poor teaching is to blame,” Connor replied, and Haytham scoffed at the thought.

“Nonsense. I have no doubts that your education has completely and utterly stalled in my absence.”

The boy’s lips twisted into a smile, and it would not be until later that Haytham would discover why Connor seemed to think his comment so amusing.


	18. Day One Hundred and Forty-Two

Following his return, Haytham had thought the next few days would be busy, but even he had underestimated the amount of _work_ that had piled up in his absence. With New York City (and even Boston, to his dismay) in Charles’ pocket, there was little business to attend to in regards to those two locations, but he was relieved that the rest of the Americas still largely considered him their rightful leader.

Mere hours after he’d finally left the comfort of his quarters on the morning following his return, he had a wealth of visitors inquiring about his well-being, his travels, and, of course, the state of the Order. Information started to flow all around him again, and Haytham relished it, evident in the enthusiasm of his conversation and simple desire to get back to business. Thirty minute meetings with his brothers turned into sessions that stretched late into the night.

And through it all, Connor remained a quiet and pleasant shadow in the background.

At first, it had been a little strange, a little unsettling, to have an _Assassin_ in attendance to these Templar meetings, and there had been whispers among his men and worried looks. With each passing hour, however, it became clear that Connor was not there to cause trouble; he remained a comfortable blue in Haytham’s second sight, and once or twice, he even thought he caught the faintest of smiles on the boy’s lips.

The days continued to pass this way until, at long last, the initial flurry of activity settled. Haytham still felt the keen sting of losing the support of both New York City and Boston, but now that he knew he still had faithful men, some of his anxiety started to ebb; his worries had been a touch overblown. Even so, it would take some work to unify the Templars as they had been before--one cohesive and powerful unit, especially if there was still bickering amongst their highest ranked members.

With continued silence from Charles, Haytham sent out several messengers to locate the man, and as he waited for a (hopefully favorable) response, he turned his attention again to his son. Over the course of the last few days, he’d seen the boy with a book in his hands as he sat in on these meetings, and that, he figured, was what Connor had hinted at when he’d sneered at his educational comment the night of his return.

“One or two books does not amount to a very thorough lesson, you know,” he commented idly, as he quickly penned a letter to the Templars in Charleston; his visitors might be gone, but his work remained. Connor glanced up, and again, there was that soft, knowing smile that only caused his father to frown.

“I agree.”

“So you agree that my statement still stands: your education has come to a complete and utter standstill in my absence.”

“If I had only read one or two books,” Connor answered, slipping a ribbon in between the pages before snapping the book shut. Haytham’s gaze lifted, a mildly curious expression crossing his features. “In your absence, I have gone through a good portion of your collection.”

At that, Haytham remembered a comment Mrs. Langley had made several days prior about putting up books.

“You decimated my library, didn’t you?” he asked flatly. When the boy said and did nothing, Haytham pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “You wasted my servant’s time and made her put up the reading material _you_ removed? How many books did you take from the shelf at a time?”

Apparently, Connor had not expected his father to become _upset_ about his books being in disarray, as a slightly troubled look appeared on his face. “I would have replaced them myself, but your organizational methods have no rhyme or reason to them,” he replied, frowning now, and well, Haytham couldn’t _really_ fault him about the organization bit; few people could make sense of the way he liked to store his things (and _yes_ , there was sense to it!), Mrs. Langley being one of them. “Besides, I took up other chores in her place.”

Haytham’s eyebrows lifted.

“I assisted in the kitchen--” Well, the boy’s knifeplay certainly _was_ excellent; that didn’t seem to be that far-fetched of a place for him to help out. “--and I have taken over part of the laundry.” _That_ , however, was rather odd.

“I had much time to kill,” Connor hurriedly continued, as his gaze rather purposefully drifted sidewards, and it was with a soft, “Ah,” that Haytham understood.

Well, that certainly explained why and how his bed linens disappeared so very suddenly the day after his return, as even Mrs. Langley was not so in-tune with him to know a quick bedding touch-up was needed. Still, Haytham had to applaud the boy for his forward thinking; despite the maid’s continued blindness toward his son’s deviant behavior, she would be hard-pressed to deny the evidence on the sheets if she ever caught sight of them.

“It is not as if I have never helped Mrs. Langley in the past,” the boy finished lamely.

“I’m... glad to hear that you are getting along with my staff,” he finally said, as smoothly as he could manage. Was this an awkward conversation? Yes, he liked to think that it was. Best to change topics before Connor clammed up entirely from embarrassment. “And what did you think of my book collection? I trust that you enjoyed it to some degree if you saw fit to leave in shambles.”

“It was extensive--informative, too.” Connor fondly ran his fingertips over the cover of the volume currently in his hands. “There is a heavy bias to your choice in works though.”

Haytham allowed a smile to curve his lips. “Go on.”

“I have come to understand why some would pursue the ideals of the Templars as you have,” the boy continued, brow furrowing slightly. “There is a certain degree of protection that comes from order, and peace can be attained through it.

“But I still believe that the methods the Templars use are wrong. It is too easy for those lulled by a sense of security to fall to tyranny.”

“You still prefer freedom then--or rather, the _illusion_ of it.”

Briefly, Connor narrowed his eyes at him, and his words took on a slightly sharper edge. “Of course. Freedom for both body and mind.”

Haytham chuckled and rose from his seat, circling around the table to gently lay a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “When you have seen as much of the world as I have, son, you will come to realize that true freedom is but a dream.”

“That will not be the case here. The birth of a new nation will provide us with the opportunity we need.”

An almost pitying smile crossed Haytham’s features. “I’ve kept you inside too long,” he said, expression gentle and voice soft--bordering on condescension. “Let’s go on a walk, shall we? I believe you’ve a cloak and hat in your wardrobe.

“I will wait for you out front.”

Without another word, he swept off, leaving a mildly stunned Connor to collect his thoughts at this sudden development. To be quite honest, even Haytham was a touch surprised with himself; the decision had been a bit more spur of the moment than he would have cared to admit to. Like with his travels, though, he knew that this day would have to come eventually if the two of them were to stand on equal ground and view the world in the same light. Thankfully, Haytham felt a little less trepidation about this than he had about leaving for New York. After all, his son had not fled in his absence, and this time, Haytham would be here by his side.

The boy came to meet him in a flurry of half-donned outerwear a few minutes later, and Haytham could not help but notice the boyish excitement his son displayed at being able to step _outdoors_ again. He watched the boy inhale deep and briefly close his eyes, simply enjoying the moment. It was a shame, really, that Haytham couldn’t exactly let him remain this way--carefree and joyous--because there was something infectious about the smile that spread across his face.

“There will be plenty of time to enjoy what Mother Nature has to offer later,” he said, beckoning for Connor to hurry after him as he stepped past the gates. “I’d like to welcome you to Philadelphia first.”

Like a dog coming to heel, the boy tailed after him as he started down the street. While this was yet another test of their relationship, Haytham hoped for their little trip to be instructional as well. Age and experience had taught him in no kind way that the world, for all that the Assassin’s fought for it, would never take easily to their Creed; while the Templars merely had to win _once_ , their enemies would have a never-ending battle upon their hands.

“Freedom only exists for those in power,” he started as they walked through the marketplace. Though it was a cold day, the sun was shining, and people thronged the stalls as shopkeepers shouted about their wares. Connor made a noncommittal sound as he looked at the products on display, and Haytham gently led him away. “Listen to me,” was what he said, quietly getting Connor to focus again; his son merely gave him a smile. “This is important.

“It is _their_ definition of freedom that suits _their_ needs. You have seen it with the slaves--” Haytham gestured at the empty platform on the other side of the square where humans were often bought and sold, and the boy’s gaze flicked over, the joy in his expression at last faltering. “--and your people have suffered at the hands of such privilege as well.”

“We need only a leader who would stand for the rights of all--” Ah, the boy didn’t bring up Washington. Good. That bastard wasn’t worth mentioning here.

“And what is a leader?” Haytham asked, continuing his slow amble. Connor frowned.

“An individual who would guide us--”

“But isn’t that infringing upon one’s free thought? If we are truly to be free, no one should be dictating what we think or do.”

“You are trying to twist my words,” the boy said, now looking a little cross. Haytham merely turned to regard his son and shook his head.

“I merely show you the reality of them.” As they continued down the street, he gestured at the church nearby and the militia stationed up and down the street. “We talk about morals and demand justice for those wronged. Why? To create order for a civilized world--to maintain _peace_.

“Don’t misunderstand me: I do not mean to say that the Assassins are wrong and that we are right, but the ultimate goal of your organization simply cannot exist in the real world.” Haytham again touched a hand to the boy’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze, as if trying to impart understanding upon Connor. “It’s simply not practical for a truly free world to exist, so why not allow for a benevolent leader to guide humanity along a better path?”

“I will not resign myself to such a bleak outlook as you have,” his son finally answered, still walking in step with his father, but he looked a touch crestfallen now. “I fight because I must and because no one else will.”

“An answer fit for a man true to the Creed,” Haytham responded with a shadow of a smile. By no means did he expect the boy to leave his precious Brotherhood with a few words and some real world examples, but he wanted him to think about it--for it to fester in his mind and thoughts. And if the troubled expression upon his face was anything to go by? Connor had listened and taken the words to heart.

They continued on in silence now, footsteps falling in time with each other, and the remainder of Haytham’s tour of Philadelphia was a rather quiet one. He continued to point out famous landmarks, noted good spots to survey the area from, and on several occasions, even made mention of a few of his favorite locations in the city--a theater, a tavern, a bakery.

The hour was late by the time they at last returned to the Kenway home, but as he opened the gate, Haytham turned to regard his son before letting his gaze flick upwards toward the trees. “If you would like to explore for a while longer, you are free to do so.

“You will not find your allies in Philadelphia, but the Templars here are faithful to me and you are too quick for the militia to catch; you’ll have free reign over the rooftops. Go on, stretch your legs.”

“What?” The tone of Connor’s voice clearly suggested that his thoughts had been elsewhere, as Haytham had suspected they had been since their tour had turned into a one-sided conversation. Over and over again, he’d caught the boy staring at the rooftops and trees instead of the more terrestrial offerings he’d been pointing out. He sighed and gave Connor a gentle push back toward the gate.

“Enjoy the city as you will, seeing as you clearly didn’t enjoy my rendition of it. Be back before dawn unless you wish to be thoroughly punished in the morning.”

“And what if I leave and never come back?”

Haytham smiled, confident. “You care for me too much.” Like one of his brothers, like an Assassin. “You won’t do it.”

Connor merely stared at him for a moment and then disappeared, scrambling up a tree and vanishing into the foliage. Haytham didn’t bother to watch him go, instead heading straight into the house. Their unexpectedly _long_ trip outside had put him quite behind in his paperwork, and if he was going to be getting any sleep tonight, he needed to get back to it straightaway; Haytham could worry about the boy in the morning.

After all, it was time to see if the hawk he was training would return to the falconer’s glove after hunting. A songbird in a gilded cage was of no use to him.


	19. Day One Hundred and Sixty-Seven

Haytham had been right: there had been no need to worry.

Well before the sun rose, he’d been woken up by a rapping at his window, and who did he find there? His son, of course. By the looks of it, he was tired, but his exhaustion could not hide the _exhilaration_ he clearly felt; his smile practically lit up the room with its radiance. Connor showered him with hungry kisses when Haytham opened the window, all but tumbling on top of him, and he replied with nips and bites, reprimanding his son for tracking dirt into the house and ruining his clothes--shoes scuffed, coat torn, and hat gone.

He didn’t mind as much as he pretended to though.

Connor would go on to beg his permission to continue exploring the city, which Haytham said yes to--under certain conditions, of course. His son always had to return to him by a certain time, and usually, he would include some sort of errand to be accomplished. Haytham did not try to send the boy on any _obviously_ Templar-related work, but on more than a few occasions, he passed notes to his brothers under the guise of a much more innocuous task: a trip to the bank, the grocer, or the local print shop.

His son’s observations of the city helped him gauge whether or not a threat was upon him as well. Connor was more than delighted to talk about what he’d seen during his ventures outside, and while he would feign only mild interest, Haytham was actually quite curious, drinking in the topics of their conversation. Peace in one district of the city meant that his men were holding their ground, while something as simple as a break-in at a store could signal future trouble to come. The boy was his eyes and ears around the city, and even if he did not know it, Haytham found him more effective than many of the other men he had at his disposal.

In addition to eagerly regaling him with his tales, Connor had also started to be more openly _affectionate_ toward him as well. His hands would touch and caress, linger and press--the actions never too obvious to appear wrong to the outsider--but Haytham recognized them for what they were: calls for attention.

To say that work had consumed him would not be entirely true, despite the many hours that he put into meeting with his men and writing to those he could not see in person, but this was the angle that he played at. Haytham refused most (but not all) of Connor’s invitations for further intimacy, and as the days passed by, it became clear that while he was still enjoying the outdoor freedom that he now had, his son still wanted more. Oh, they kissed now--hot and desperate or slow and gentle--and sometimes, when Haytham was feeling especially generous, he’d crush the boy against the wall, grinding their pleasure out with pants and growls.

All that said, though, they had not slept together since his return from New York City.

Haytham had often thought about it (and knew Connor did as well), and there had been a fair few instances when he’d nearly bent the boy over his desk and had his way with him. It would have been all too easy to succumb to what they both wanted, but there was something undoubtedly _delightful_ about knowing that the boy wanted him-- _desired_ him--with ever-growing desperation and frustration. This relationship of theirs had originally been built upon a series of rewards and promises, and while he too would have to suffer to some degree, Haytham liked to think that when they would eventually join together once again that it would be more than worth the effort. In the meantime, he’d simply enjoy the mental satisfaction he gained from having his son under his thumb.

See, Connor had to _earn_ the privilege of getting fucked, and while his deeds up to this point were helpful, they weren’t quite _worthy_ of that sort of response.

Of course, Haytham never saw fit to let the boy know about the rules of the game, and he was left to fumble in the dark. His growing dissatisfaction was evident in the way his aggression grew, in the way he looked at his father with undeniable hunger and lust, and by the time he slipped out of the window with a scowl this morning, Haytham knew that things had come to a head: something was going to happen tonight.

Needless to say, he wasn’t all that surprised when Connor was _late_ returning to his side--two hours late, in fact.

His son greeted him with a smile that was all teeth and a kiss that stung his lips, hands pushing against his shoulders until they knocked against the wall. Haytham felt a knee shove his legs apart and then the press of a hard cock pressed flush against his thigh; Connor groaned and whispered filthy things in his ear, things that made him hiss with growing arousal. It was only when he felt a large hand curl around to his backside that Haytham realized that he’d given the boy too much leeway, and he snarled, dropping the boy to the ground by knocking his feet out from under him.

Connor growled as he straddled his midriff, securing his arms behind his back with one hand, and Haytham narrowed his eyes, ignoring the way his son shifted beneath him. Though he’d been momentarily blinded by lust, he could see what the boy was trying to do: incite him into action and elicit a reaction; his son wanted attention, and when he could not get it through positive actions, he tried the reverse.

Well, if he wanted to be punished, then Haytham would most certainly deliver.

“A poor decision, but then again, I’ve come to expect that,” he murmured, leaning down so he could nip at the boy’s ear. His free hand struggled with the ribbon tied around his neck, roughly working it free, and when he finally yanked it loose, Haytham was quick to circle it around his son’s wrists, all but smirking when Connor tugged against them and failed to release himself from his bonds. Haytham chuckled and then rose to his feet, circling the boy as he awkwardly got to his knees.

Grasping his son’s chin, he stroked his thumb over his lips and then stepped away. Behind him, Haytham could hear Connor try to get back on his feet, but he tutted quietly and shook his head. “For your indiscretions, you’re not allowed to touch or be touched,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “Is that understood? Stay exactly where you are lest you wish for a harsher punishment.”

When Connor remained silent, Haytham arched a brow, pausing with his hands on the laces of his breeches. “I asked you a question, boy. I expect an answer.”

“Yes, father,” came the low growl, and he smiled, clearly pleased with himself for causing his son such frustration. There was so much _anger_ in Connor’s gaze, but that he would still bow to Haytham’s will... Well, he thought it was terribly arousing.

Taking a seat on the edge of the bed, Haytham drew himself out, humming as he slowly swept his fingers over the shaft, almost experimental. His hand was usually a poor replacement for an actual partner, but with an _audience_ , it stirred within him an entirely different feeling of lust. He spit in his palm and all but sneered at his son, whose irritable expression was already melting into one of want: lips slightly parted, gaze trained upon the easy up and down movement of his hand, the slight twitch of his knees as he struggled to comply with his father’s wishes.

“Wish you were closer?” he asked, his voice a soft, velvety purr, and Connor’s gaze flicked upwards to meet his; the boy swallowed and tried to appear defiant. “You always did seem enjoy having my cock in your mouth, taking it deep until I thought you might gag.”

Haytham closed his eyes at the thought, remembering all too well that wet heat--perfect lips sealed around his erection, a tongue pressed against his shaft. His hand picked up from its languorous pace, the friction he felt delightful, but still not as erotic as the feeling of a pair of wanting eyes taking in his every movement.

He’d never thought himself the type to enjoy being _watched_.

“Or--” He was a little more breathless this time, and he paused to lick his lips as he briefly toyed with his balls. “--Do you prefer to take it up the arse? You kept asking for more, if I recall correctly.” Haytham moaned softly as he gave his cock a tighter squeeze, trying to replicate the sensation of fucking the boy. “You’d be easy enough to tip over with your hands bound. I’d hold you down, face against the floor, and take you.”

Connor groaned, and his hips jerked of their own accord, thrusting against the air. “Father,” he said, sounding broken and raw. “Please, father...”

“This... This is your fault, you know,” Haytham replied, planting his free hand heavily in the sheets, his fingers curling against the plush fabric. His legs spread a little wider, and he moaned softly, rocking into the curl of his fist. “If you had only been more patient--” He hissed and cursed beneath his breath, as he swept his thumb across the swollen head. “--If you had only _listened_ to me, we would not be having this conversation.”

\--If this could even be called a conversation, of course.

“To punish you is to punish myself.” The sound of a quiet whimper reached his ears, causing Haytham to smile, all too pleased with himself. He could feel the pressure building at the base of his spine, the desire for release growing ever stronger, and right now, there was no reason to hold back and stall his climax. In fact, it’d likely work in his favor in admonishing Connor, if the look on his face was anything to go by.

Oh, the disappointment at not having a hand in his father’s pleasure!

With a self-satisfied sigh, Haytham spilled, leaving a mess on his hand, his waistcoat, and his breeches. He continued to roll his hips into his fist a few times more before beckoning his son over with his free hand; Connor hurried to do his bidding, awkwardly shuffling over on his knees. The expression on his face was so _strained_ , and Haytham could only imagine his discomfort. “Are you properly repentant?” he asked softly, still breathless. “I would prefer that we do not need another lesson on this matter.”

“Father, please--”

“Are you properly repentant?” Haytham carded a hand through the boy’s hair before fisting it and yanking his son’s head forward; Connor winced but did not complain. “Yes or no.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now clean up this mess,” he said, offering his dirtied hand. For a moment, it looked like the boy was going to try and bring up his own needs once more, but then his tongue snaked out, drawing a wet line over his skin. Connor closed his eyes and set to work with vigor, and Haytham shivered with residual pleasure as his son lapped up every drop of his issue from his hand and clothes before taking his mouth to the source. He hissed, all too sensitive now for such attention, and gently pushed Connor away, and the boy licked his lips, still wanting.

“I suppose we should attend to you as well,” Haytham mumbled, as if in afterthought, and his son moaned, turning his head to nudge at his hand, to nip lightly at his fingertips. Connor opened his mouth, as if to make another plea, but Haytham pressed a finger against his lips and shook his head. Instead, he shifted one leg so that the sole of his boot rested at the front of the boy’s breeches; Connor’s hips automatically jerked against his shoe. “You won’t be having my hand today. This _is_ still punishment.

“Go on then. Pleasure yourself.”

The boy whined but did as he was told, shamelessly rutting against his father’s boot. His breath came quick and fast, and Haytham affectionately combed his fingers through his son’s hair as he waited, a faint but amused smile playing at his lips--not that he would have much time to kill.

Connor came with a muffled shout shortly after, face buried against the soft fabric of his father’s breeches, and he panted, shoulders slumping, as he slowly but surely came off the high of his release. Haytham continued to remain surprisingly mild, his touch gentle and comforting, and it was only when they heard the sound of the gates being jangled that his hands stilled.

He waited for the noise to stop, but when it didn’t--when someone started shouting and begging for entry--he pushed Connor away, rising to his feet. Haytham was quick to free his son, quicker still to put himself back in order, and when he looked out the window, the very window the boy had come in through a short while ago, he saw a man astride a horse, blood staining the white shirt he wore.

Several of his servants were already running outside to let the man in, and just as they wrenched open the gates, he wavered and toppled off his horse, a crumpled heap on the ground. Before Connor could say a word, Haytham swept out of the room, arriving in the foyer just in time to see the injured individual being carried inside.

He swore quietly when he saw just who it was: he was one of the men Haytham had sent off to find Charles.


	20. Day One Hundred and Seventy

His name was Gilbert Rogers.

He wasn’t an especially high-ranking or notable man in the the Order, but Haytham remembered his name. After all, he _had_ asked for it before he sent Rogers off to Boston, a letter tucked into his coat pocket and a smart smile on his face. The man was still young and eager, all too willing to prove his loyalty to the cause.

This was not supposed to have been a dangerous mission, and as he had not gotten more than a few mumbled apologies from Rogers thus far, Haytham still did not know what had happened. The doctor had said that his injury was not fresh (a gunshot wound to the shoulder--one that had reopened on several occasions), but because of the lack of treatment directly after the incident, the man was septic; his prognosis was, unfortunately, grim.

With Rogers delirious with fever, Haytham could do very little but wait and hope that he would get well soon--or at the very least, remain lucid long enough to say more than a handful of words. No other messengers returned, and with one already on the verge of death, he wondered if Rogers was actually the lucky one, if the others had already been killed. Haytham dreaded to think that Charles would do something like this, that he would harm one of his own brothers, but it would not be the first time an ally had turned on him--turned on what it meant to be a Templar.

Then again, he supposed that Charles likely thought that it was _he_ who was the traitor.

Connor, for his part, remained largely silent about this entire mess. Oh, Haytham could tell that he had a few sharp words on his tongue about the general, but for his benefit, the boy kept his lips sealed. His son had taken to spending a great deal of time sitting just outside the doors leading into their guest’s room, not unlike some sort of overgrown watchdog, and Haytham honestly wasn’t sure if he was supposed to be delighted or disturbed by such a display of... questionable worry. Certainly, there was the off-chance that the boy was growing closer...

No, it seemed too easy. Connor would not-- _could not_ \--have started to sympathize with his men, common enemy aside. Maybe Haytham’s agitation had rubbed off on his son, or perhaps Rogers had reminded him rather sharply of his own allies and left him in low spirits. After all, their fate was still largely unknown to them; they had all but disappeared into thin air after the raid in New York City.

Either way, the atmosphere at the Kenway residence had taken a decided turn for the worse. The heavy rain that fell outside perfectly mirrored the mood within, and it was with some sense of relief that Haytham left the company of Connor, all angry stares and tight-lipped frowns as he was. His daily reprieve in Rogers’ room typically left him feeling no better, but today, the man was alert when he entered, pale face tilting in his direction as he stepped past the threshold.

“Master Kenway,” he said, voice breathy but carrying well in the otherwise silent room. Haytham hurried over to the bedside, carefully brushing past the doctor, and knelt, a grim hope filling his chest. He knew that he should not press the man to speak more, given his health, but _he had to know_ \--this was terribly important to both him and the Order. Likely sensing the gravity of the situation, Rogers needed no prompting to continue speaking. “It was Lee,” he began. “Gave him your letter. Got told that you’d been bewitched by the Assassin.”

Anger should have been the emotion that filled him, but all he felt was disappointment--a deep, bitter disappointment that his old ally and friend could not understand, _refused_ to understand the importance of having Connor on their side.

“I tried to reason with him, sir.” A fool’s errand, he thought, as a feeble smile flitted across his subordinate’s face. “Got shot for my trouble. Couldn’t return the favor while I was tryin’ to get out.

“He said...” Rogers grimaced, and the doctor placed a warning hand on Haytham’s shoulder; the poor man was fast approaching his limit now; a thin layer of perspiration sheened his skin as he continued to exert himself. “He said he was gonna make the Assassin pay.”

“How, Rogers? Tell me how.”

“Bridewell Prison. A public execution.” Outside in the hallway, there was a thud, and it took Haytham less than a second to realize that Connor had heard. He cursed and ran toward the door, but he was already too late; the window down the hall was open, rain slowly but surely drenching the rug there.

“Connor? _Connor!_ ” he shouted. Logically, he probably should have stayed by Rogers’ side and sent someone after the boy, but on an emotional and personal level, there was no choice--Haytham _had_ to give chase.

The rain was cold-- _frigid_ \--and without so much as a coat or cloak, he was soaked to the bone in a matter of seconds as he skidded over the roof, desperately trying to find his son before he disappeared into the curtain of water that fell from the sky. Even with his second vision, Haytham found it difficult to spot the boy, to spot the blue speck that was leaping over rooftops and across tree limbs.

Connor was heading in a northeasterly direction. It had taken Haytham a moment to realize this, but as they passed more and more familiar landmarks, he could draw no other conclusion: the boy intended to go to New York and save his allies.

He forced himself to run faster, leap further--slipping and sliding, all the while shouting himself hoarse. His voice was drowned out by the hiss of the rain, though, and his son paid no him no heed, eventually disappearing down into an alleyway. By the time Haytham arrived at that spot, he was gone without a trace.

Still, not all hope was lost.

The boy had clearly studied the city, studied it in hopes of finding the most direct route toward New York, but Haytham still held the advantage; Philadelphia was his home and a place he knew like the back of his hand. Finding Connor in this maze of a city was pointless, but if he could catch him before he made it too far out into the countryside, Haytham could still bring him back before he got himself killed.

Couldn’t he tell? Wasn’t it obvious? It was a trap--for both the boy and his Assassin allies. Their brothers were the bait, and... _Dammit, Charles!_ That man was trying to eliminate them all in one fell swoop, and here was their leader, running off without a plan, without a single thought in his skull except the singular desire to save his friends.

Haytham headed northward, skipping over rooftops and wires until returning to ground level when he spotted a lone traveler down on the streets below. Of course, it wasn’t the man he was interested in; it was his _horse_.

Scrambling down, he was quick to yank the individual off of his steed, dropping him unceremoniously in a large puddle on the ground. Haytham mounted the beast without giving the man a second thought, and as the traveler screamed profanities at his back, he spurred the horse into a gallop, feeling powerful muscles bunch beneath him.

Weaving through narrow alleyways, sprinting headlong down open roads, and slipping through abandoned parks and marketplaces, Haytham made a beeline toward the fringes of the city until, at last, he was surrounded by the countryside. Though the rain still made visibility poor, he felt confident that he could find the boy now, squinting against the onslaught of water as he searched desperately for a fleck of blue against a sea of grey.

And then, _there_ \--an individual with black hair astride a chestnut-colored steed could be seen riding through an empty field, hooves kicking up mud and splashing water. Haytham urged his own horse in that direction and simply hoped that the beast would have enough strength, speed, and endurance to catch up; losing the boy now would sting all that much more, what with his target so close--now that he could see his son’s broad back.

“Connor! _Connor!_ ” he yelled, and at last, his son acknowledged him, glancing briefly over his shoulder.

“Do not try to stop me!”

“Just _listen_ to me, you fool!”

\--But his words fell upon deaf ears.

He could tell that his horse was tiring, and his final opportunity to stop the boy was fast approaching. Coming up behind his son, he leapt from the back of one animal to the other. He first looped an arm around the boy’s waist and then grabbed at the horse’s reins and yanked, causing the creature to rear and toppling father and son onto the muddied ground below.

Connor’s weight upon him forced all the air out of his lungs, and when he felt his son’s fist slam into his jaw, there was a sense of disconnect before his own survival instincts kicked in, making him roll away before blindly trying to tackle the boy. Haytham caught Connor around the waist and threw him to the ground; they tussled in the mud, trying to force their will upon the other.

Dull nails raked at his face, and he swung at the boy, sneering when he heard Connor snarl, blood now flowing freely from his nose. His son replied in turn, catching him in the eye, and Haytham mistakenly lifted his hands in pain; Connor took this opportunity to roll them over, pinning his arms.

Neither man seemed to care that their horses had run off a long time ago.

“Why did you let him do this?!” the boy yelled, his voice filled with a rage that Haytham had not witnessed for _months_ now. Anger twisted Connor’s expression, and the grip of his hands turned painful; he’d have bruises to show for this encounter. “Why have you let Lee do this? Tell me! _Tell me now!_ ”

“I didn’t!” he spat, all bared teeth and flashing eyes. “Wasn’t it obvious? Do you think I would have ordered him to shoot one of my own men? Do you think me that cruel and heartless?”

The pause was answer enough, and Haytham huffed, rolling his eyes.

“ _Fine._ Think what you will of me, Connor, but what I said still stands: I did not order your precious Assassins to be hanged,” he continued. Connor’s hold upon him lightened--only just, though; his expression was still untrusting, and Haytham could feel months’ worth of work disappearing right before his eyes. He couldn’t let that happen, couldn’t risk losing his son; he couldn’t take it-- “I can no longer consider Charles an ally. What he does, he does on his own.”

The admission _hurt_ , if only because it meant letting go of what little hope had remained; his friend was lost to him--completely and utterly lost. In truth, this was something he had never wanted to say, least of all to Connor, but desperation could make even the most prideful man break. “There was no need to kill them; keeping them in prison simply meant that they were out of the way.”

“You have killed people for far more petty reasons. I know. I have seen you do it,” the boy finally said, his voice a barely audible growl over the sound of the rain. “Why spare them now?”

Because Charles was right: Connor had changed him. The _bitterness_ that had driven him for so long had started to fade, and the more time he spent with his son, the more hope he found in the world. It was almost like he was becoming that idealistic individual he had once been when he’d first stepped foot on American soil-- _almost_.

Still, one confession was enough for today, and as the boy’s hands were at last relenting, Haytham figured that the immediate danger of losing Connor was past. Besides, they had more pressing matters to attend to.

“Considering how you were so willing to get yourself killed for these people a few minutes ago, do you really think we should be discussing this now?” he replied, completely and utterly sidestepping the question. Before Connor had time to protest, Haytham roughly shoved him aside and rose to his feet. He was cold, wet, bruised, and completely filthy, but it was a worthy price to pay: his son was still by his side, still _his_.

He extended a hand to the boy. “I believe we’ve a common enemy to face.”


	21. Day One Hundred and Seventy-One

Haytham had long considered writing to be his favorite way of unwinding.

Since boyhood, he’d confided in the pages of his journals, leaving his most private thoughts and darkest secrets between their leather bindings. As he grew older, he did wonder about the safety and security of doing so, considering that he’d never bothered to really _hide_ the things, but by the time his journals contained more than the ramblings of a child, the habit was too ingrained into his being to stop--and the number of people he could trust, truly trust, had dwindled. There simply was no one that he _could_ speak to anymore.

Even so, though, the words would not come easily today.

Immediately upon returning to the Kenway residence the night before, Haytham had one of his servants book passage on the next ship to leave for New York City at Connor’s insistence, but he could not fault his son’s need to depart as soon as possible--really, he’d been expecting it. Rogers had again faded into fevered delirium by the time they had come home, so there was no way to know when the execution date was.

It was raining when they left the docks, and it was still raining now, several hours into their journey. Despite the weather, though, Connor had taken his leave to wander the deck; Haytham could only assume that he’d left to gather his thoughts and try to formulate a plan--something he should be doing as well. With the city under Charles’ control, what could the two of them accomplish alone? Oh, he did not doubt their skills, but even so, ability could only counteract the weight of numbers to a certain degree when the odds were stacked so heavily against them.

He could not come up with anything though; his mind was too clouded with other thoughts. Despite that, Haytham stared at the journal opened before him, unsure of how to progress and unable to put anything to paper--unable to clear his mind. He’d written the date and his son’s name at the top of the page before stopping; he knew of the root of his problem at least. Haytham had already written extensively about his son in previous entries, but he had not touched upon the subject of father and son as a unit--or rather, _together_ in this... this... _partnership_ that they had.

Was it some sort of subconscious disgust? Doubtful. Considering all that he had done to the boy thus far, Haytham was of the mind that if he was going to lose sleep over it, then it would have happened long ago. Then maybe it was a fear that others would find his writings and assume things? Again, he doubted that that was the problem: Haytham was the sort of individual who took into account the opinions of others, but he would never be ruled by them.

No, he suspected that his hesitancy to write about them being _them_ stemmed from a feeling he’d once felt in the presence of Ziio--a most unusual sensation of confusion and indecision. He’d recognized the possibility back then of having something more, something incredibly _intimate_ , but Haytham had opted not to act on it until it was too late, until she’d slipped right out of his grasp.

That same hesitancy lingered with him to this day. Time had taught him to be all too cautious about bringing people into his inner circle and past his emotional walls; it was almost like he’d been cursed. On one too many occasions had those he cared for, cherished, _loved_ , left his side: his father, his mother, Reginald, Ziio, Holden, Charles...

Haytham was less than eager to add one more to the list.

Connor had changed him for the better when it came to thinking about the relationship between Assassins and Templars--the things that they shared, the ways in which they differed, the possibilities that could open before him if their forces combined. For this, he was thankful, and for this, he approved of keeping the boy beside him.

When it came to a personal level, though, Haytham was again unsure of where he stood, if his gains outweighed his losses. With each supposed victory, he wondered what he had given to attain it--wondered if he had, in fact, lost to the boy instead. He had never intended to become so attached to his son; the idea had been for the clinging need to be one-sided, so as best to make use of Connor’s skills and abilities--not for the feeling to be mutual, or worse yet, to be one-sided on _his_ part.

Haytham was _supposed_ to be above the mess of emotions that ran between them. So where had his plans gone so wrong? When had he fallen for his own trap? He was quickly becoming madly, deeply in--

The sound of approaching footsteps had Haytham jerking his head up and instinctively shutting his journal, and a moment later, Connor stepped into their shared cabin without so much as a word of warning or greeting. The boy’s gaze shifted to the notebook in front of his father and the quill in his hands before sweeping away; a faint rustle of fabric told Haytham that he was removing his soaked cloak and coat, and the slap of wet clothing against wood signaled that he’d tossed it away somewhere.

“You shouldn’t have gone out in such weather,” he said quietly, carefully stowing away his writing materials. “Are you _trying_ to catch a cold? I hope you realize that I won’t be rescuing your men on my own.” Connor grunted behind him in answer, and Haytham sighed.

So, the awkwardness between them lingered.

He still felt rather ashamed about his own behavior, the desperation that he’d allowed to bubble to the surface, and to add to his displeasure, Haytham felt some residual anger toward Connor for having bolted like that, especially after all of the liberties that he’d granted the boy. It left a rather bitter taste in his mouth, and if he allowed himself to dwell on the matter, he would have recognized the feeling as jealousy--jealousy over the fact that, even now, his son cared for his men so much that he’d tear after anyone who would do them harm while armed with nothing but his fists.

\--A matter that he had to resolve when they reached port.

It would have been easier to just return the boy’s equipment to him, but a part of him did not want to. Like his Assassin robes, those tools were reminders of things that Haytham did not like, did not approve of, so it made sense, did it not? It made sense to want to gift him with new things--things that would remind Connor of _him_. Oh, he knew all too well that his son was not the type to be won with trinkets, but it would make Haytham feel better at least.

“Have you thought of what you want to do upon our arrival?” he eventually asked, turning in his chair to get a better look at the boy. Connor had taken a seat on a barrel, arms folded loosely across his chest, and he calmly met his gaze, his voice steady and matter-of-fact.

“I will save my brothers. It is that simple.”

Haytham had to resist the urge to roll his eyes. “Yes, that much is obvious. I assume that you have some idea of what to do before and after as well? Or have you already forgotten that your friends are being held at Bridewell Prison?”

“You do not need to come with me, if you are finding this to be troublesome. This is not your battle, nor is it your problem,” Connor replied, biting the words out with a low growl, and Haytham wished that he could say that it wasn’t, that he could ignore the two prisoners they’d come for; they were, at worst, his sworn enemies, and at best, irritants in his side. The only reason why he cared (if this vaguely annoyed emotion could even be _called_ that) was because the boy did, and, well, he was here to make sure that his son didn’t accidentally get himself killed during the rescue attempt.

“You have _made_ it my problem,” he muttered under his breath. Haytham drummed his fingers against the table and sighed. “Look, even if the other Assassins appear, you’ll be outnumbered, and I doubt you’ll have much time to coordinate anything with them. Blending with the crowd can get us in, but what is your exit strategy? Where do you intend to hide them?

“And before you suggest it, we are _not_ taking them to my residence. I’ve enough trouble with just _one_ Assassin under my roof, thank you very much.”

“I do not think they would accept your hospitality, even if you offered,” Connor replied, the faintest hint of a wry smile pulling at his lips. “The frontier is vast. They can take refuge there for the time being, but their final destination should be the Homestead. They will be safe there.”

“They?” Haytham lifted his eyebrows. “You do not intend to go with them?”

At that, the boy gave his father a puzzled look before shaking his head. “I am staying with you. You said that we would hunt for Lee together.”

It was difficult to not cringe a little with the boy’s wording, but he nodded his head in agreement. “Yes, I... I suppose I did.”

If Connor picked up on his discomfort, he did not act upon it, instead plowing onwards, as if suddenly taken by inspiration. Perhaps his trip up to the deck had cleared his thoughts some, the rain washing away his agitation and replacing it with crisp and clear focus. Haytham’s own preoccupations continued to gnaw at him, but it helped a little that he could turn his attention to something else for the time being.

“We will need horses to reach the outskirts of the city and a means of taking out the hangman’s noose.”

“Throwing knives work better than a fired shot,” Haytham added idly, and when the boy gave him that inquisitive look of his, he merely smiled. As realization dawned upon him, Connor lifted a hand, touching it to his throat. For a moment, it looked as if his son would ask him additional questions, but Haytham cut him off before another word could slip out of his mouth. “They’re easier to conceal than a musket in any case, and they’ll no doubt be keeping a close watch on the rooftops after what happened at _your_ execution.”

His son gave him one last curious look before nodding his head. “We have a plan.”

“The bare bones of one. I’d prefer to have something a little more detailed to go off of.”

“Then let us work.” Connor dragged his barrel over to the table and took a seat, and in that moment, Haytham knew that he wouldn’t be getting a wink of sleep that night. He’d brought it upon himself, but it was necessary to save the Assassins--necessary to make sure his self-sacrificing son didn’t get himself killed in the process.

Haytham had saved the boy at Bridewell once before; he prayed that he wouldn’t have to do it again.


	22. Day One Hundred and Seventy-Eight

The remainder of their journey aboard the ship passed in a flurry of talks and discussions, plans hatched and refined. There was no time for precious sentiment, and Haytham was blessedly not given the opportunity to dwell on things like feelings and emotions. New York City would greet them with sunny skies, and after hitting the shore, all was proceeding as expected-- _better_ than expected, actually.

Really, the only missing piece was Charles, but Haytham was not exactly surprised that the general was not here. While Templar influence in Bridewell Prison was strong, they did not technically-- _legally_ \--have possession of the facility, and even if they did, there was no reason for Charles to be here, disgraced as he was in the public’s eye.

No, their hunt for the man would take them elsewhere. For now, though, his attention needed to be on what was to come in a few moment’s time.

The gallows were mere feet away from them, and father and son were both armed to the teeth beneath their cloaks: pistols, knives, darts, and swords. Hoods pulled low over their eyes, they waited, attention directed toward the short train of prisoners being marched forward; around them, the crowd shouted and jeered, anticipation-- _excitement_ \--filling the air around them.

It was a touch sickening, Haytham thought, to see humans delight in the death of strangers; his son likely would’ve commented on the irony of such a thought if he’d voiced it though.

The prison guards marched four individuals onto the platform: three men and one woman. At first, Haytham thought nothing of it; he was here for one purpose and one purpose only: to save those two men whom his son called brothers. The spares? Well, it was a shame that they got caught for whatever it was that they’d done, but this was their just reward for upsetting the peace.

The roar of the crowd increased in volume as the nooses were looped around the prisoners’ necks and burlap bags placed over their heads, the sound becoming deafening as the announcer stepped onto the platform to list their crimes. It was difficult to hear anything above the din of the crowd, and Haytham watched impassively, eyes shifting from one Assassin to the next, as their names and offenses were ticked off in a dull, droning voice.

What came next, however, caught both his attention and Connor’s.

“Zenger, Henrik. Guilty of attacking a military officer and disrupting the peace.” The boy’s elbow jabbed him in the ribs, and Haytham merely brushed him off; he needed no prompting to know what was going on here. “Zenger, Wilhemina. Guilty of aiding in the attack of a military officer and disrupting the peace.”

So Charles had found them, but instead of treating them with respect, he’d jailed them. And now? Now he would see them hanged. Beside him, Connor tensed, hands bunching into fists at his sides, and Haytham placed a calming hand on his shoulder, stopping him from bolting and putting all of their plans to waste. Leaning toward his son, he whispered, “You help your men. I’ll get the other two.”

There was a slight nod of confirmation, and then they both turned their attention to the executioner, whose fingers slowly closed around the lever that would send all four individuals to their deaths. Hands stole beneath cloaks, readying knives; bodies tensed, ready to strike at the best moment. This was it. This was their moment of action, and--

Gunshot rang out over the rooftops, and as one, all of those in the square turned to stare at the source of the noise. A woman with a white hood scampered across the rooftops, a number of militia members struggling to climb up after her. When she paused to grab the musket hefted over her shoulder, Haytham cursed beneath his breath.

Time slowing to a crawl, the Assassin pulled the trigger, her shot grazing one of the ropes, and then someone in the crowd screamed--high-pitched and filled with terror. The world erupted into chaos as another shot was fired from the rooftops, this time by a man, and Haytham twisted back toward the gallows in time to see the executioner pull the lever, shouting in pain as his free hand went to clasp at the red blossoming across his chest.

Instinct moved him, two daggers flying out of his hands before his aim was compromised by fleeing civilians jostling him about and obscuring his view. Beside him, he knew the boy had managed to loose at least one blade, but the other...

Something silver flew skywards, glinting in the sunlight, before sinking into the wooden frame of the gallows, and while three ropes were severed, one remained intact, strung taut by the weight of a body on the other end. A strangled cry erupted from somewhere to his left, and Connor burst forth from the suffocating press of civilians, rushing toward the platform.

He’d be too late.

Haytham cast one final look at the battle unfolding on the rooftops before hurrying over to the gallows, ducking under the wooden beams to check on the individuals they’d managed to rescue. That French-speaking Assassin was muttering something to his son, desperately trying to pull him away from the body of their second brother; the mother and her son were huddled in another corner, staring at him with wide, frightened eyes.

“ _Connor!_ ” he shouted, and when the boy didn’t budge, Haytham came over and shook him by the shoulders. “Connor, let him go. We have to get out of here unless you want all of us to die.”

The sorrowful look his son gave him sent a chill lancing down his spine, making him suddenly hesitant. Still, he pulled himself together, and when the other Assassin tried to remove his hands from his son, Haytham gave him such a look that he stopped, fingers quickly drawing away.

“Please, son. Let us go. _Now._ ” One hand still gripped tightly around the boy’s shoulder, he turned his attention to the other man, gesturing toward the Zengers. “You’ll find four horses tied up at the back of the building on the other side of the street. Protect them and ride for the Homestead.”

“You cannot tell me what--”

“ _Do as I say._ ” With an easy movement of the wrist, the hidden blade engaged, and he shifted to press it close against the Assassin’s throat, allowing the sharp edge to dig _ever_ so slightly into skin. Connor had already lost one of his brothers, and while Haytham would _prefer_ not to take the life of another--not here, not now--he would if he had to. This entire operation had been shot to hell, and he wasn’t going to allow for himself or his son to die here because of the Brotherhood’s stupidity. “Am I clear?”

Chin lifted to avoid cutting himself on the hidden blade, the man could only manage the slightest of nods, eyes betraying the anger that he did not voice. Haytham lowered his hand, and the Assassin moved away, grabbing the mother and son and hauling them off; within seconds, they’d vanished into the panicking crowd.

When he turned to look back at his son, Connor was still kneeling by the body of his fallen brother, head bent and arms tightly circling the lifeless frame. Haytham sighed and folded his hand around the boy’s wrist. His voice was quiet when he spoke, barely audible above the sounds of screams all around them. “Let it go, son. You did all that you could.”

“I cannot leave him here.”

For a moment, Haytham thought he had misheard, but then, his son was repeating it again, louder and with more conviction. “I cannot leave him here.”

He should have known something like this would happen; it was so very... _Connor_.

Sighing, Haytham glanced at the mess all around them and grudgingly gave thanks to the Assassins for creating such a commotion; the guards were so distracted with trying to calm the crowd or chasing after the two individuals on the rooftops that they didn’t bother to pay attention to the two people still situated beneath the gallows. “Carry him. I’ll protect you, if it becomes necessary.”

Connor gathered the body in his arms and started toward the fray, pausing briefly to give him a look over his shoulder. “Thank you.”

Two simple words should not have filled him with warmth--not when there was pandemonium all around him, not when his son was carrying a dead man from the gallows--but they did. Haytham gave the boy a fleeting smile and pressed a hand to his shoulder, a wordless gesture of sympathy.

“Later. You can thank me later.”


	23. Day One Hundred and Eighty-Seven

Escaping Bridewell Prison turned out to be easier than escaping the city proper. The confusion surrounding the gallows gave both men enough cover to slip out unnoticed, but once they were out on the open streets, there wasn’t really any good way to hide the fact that they were carrying around a dead man.

Walking the horses gave too many individuals the opportunity to gawk and draw attention to them, while galloping their rides through the streets was hardly any better, snarled with people as they were. By the time they’d managed to get halfway down the block, they had no choice _but_ to trample all in their path in the hopes of escaping the droves of militia that were now on their tail. The frontier was their only hope of escape, and it was toward that destination that they rode.

Time and time again, Haytham was tempted to tell the boy to leave the Assassin’s body behind. It hampered his riding, which slowed him down, and it also meant that traveling by foot and escaping to the rooftops were not really viable options either. It irritated him to no end, but to see the determination on his son’s face made him swallow the words of protest sitting on the tip of his tongue; Haytham had done enough damage in the boy’s life, and for once, he would not try to do more harm.

It was only when the soft embrace of twilight enveloped them that they were able to shake off their pursuers after many hours of looping, circling, and backtracking through the forest. They had ridden largely in silence, what few words they shared were terse and to the point; this was, Haytham felt, more than just because they were being chased. The expression Connor wore was frozen in a mask, and he seemed a touch too focused on the task at hand, like he was trying to mask another emotion behind his concentration.

He would not pry though, would not do anything aside from press a hand to the boy’s shoulder when they at last stopped for the night. Haytham assumed that he was still mourning the loss of his brother, even if he had put up a brave front while they had still been in the city; the woods did, in a way, have a way of making a man feel sentimental.

He, too, could feel its effects upon him, and he hated it. Haytham could think of nothing but bronzed skin beneath his fingertips, proud eyes, and soft lips beneath his own. It did not matter how much he tried to work on their next plan of action; his thoughts would continue to turn toward his son until at last he gave up, allowing himself to wallow in his feelings.

They would eventually bury Colley at the base of the tallest tree in the area, and they did so in near silence, with Connor murmuring something in his native tongue as they settled the earth over the freshly dug grave. Haytham was not a religious man and had no idea if the Assassin was, but he hoped that the individual had found peace, somewhere and somehow.

When the task was completed, Connor thanked him again for allowing him the time to do this--to give his brother a proper burial despite the risk that it put the both of them in--and Haytham had merely smiled, bittersweet. Pain was still etched in the features of the boy’s face, but there was nothing he could do to erase it. For too long, he was not the father that he should have been, and while their relationship was patched now, he was _still_ not the father he should be and never would be, given all that had transpired between them.

What comfort he could give would be found in gentle caresses and soft kisses, but it felt... _wrong_ at this moment. So, he did nothing.

By the time they arrived back in Philadelphia, Haytham felt as if he had gone mute, seeing as he’d hardly spoken for _days_ now. The sounds of the city were loud and grating upon his nerves after the quiet of the woods, but his mood lightened a little when he saw Mrs. Langley waiting for them in the open doorway of the Kenway home.

\--Even Connor managed to crack a smile when the woman came over and pulled them both into a fierce embrace.

The joy, however, was short-lived. No more than a few hours had passed since their return that his son came to seek his company in the privacy of his bedchambers, his expression serious and his gaze revealing a sorrow he still would not voice. “I must return to the Homestead,” he said quietly. “Lee will not be satisfied with the results from Bridewell Prison.”

The words, “And he will want to finish the job,” hung unsaid in the air.

“And?” Haytham turned away from his dresser, hands automatically moving to fold behind his back; he had been expecting this. To be quite honest, he was surprised that Connor had not taken them straight there. Perhaps he had needed time for his grief to stew, for the anger he felt to rekindle his need for action. Well, it didn’t matter; the time had finally come. “What will you do?”

As much of a fiasco as the execution had been for them, Charles had fared no better. One of the Assassins was now gone from this world, but he’d failed to kill the rest whom he flushed out, and now? Now the general had no more cards to play, no more victims to put out on display and draw the Brotherhood to him. No, if he wanted access to them, _Charles_ would have to go to _the Assassins_ \--to the Homestead, which was, logically speaking, their last stronghold.

“I will kill him,” Connor replied simply, arms folding across his chest as if _daring_ Haytham to challenge him.

He rolled his eyes and made a soft, irritated noise. “Do you think he will march there alone, boy? Do you think that he’s that much of a fool?

“He has many men of the Order at his disposal. He has led armies. What will you do against such odds?”

“My brothers--”

“--Are battered and lost. Will you still send them into battle when their best hope is for a quick and painless death?”

“We have won against greater odds before,” Connor countered, the volume of his voice growing with his irritation now. “Do not try to stop me, father.” Those words came out as a snarl. “Lee will die by _my_ hands.”

Anger welled up within him, flaring like it had when he’d stopped Connor from riding for New York. Again and again, the boy insisted on doing everything on his own, and Haytham could not help but feel a touch offended that he did not think to ask _him_ for assistance, especially given all that he’d done for that worthless Brotherhood of his thus far.

“Your memory is poor. Must I remind you again that we share a common enemy?” he muttered, giving his son an irritated look. “He will come at you with as many men as he can muster, so I ask you this: why do you not do the same?”

“I cannot ask the Homesteaders to fight. There are only the seven--” Connor froze for a moment, gaze dropping toward the ground. “There are only the six of us. Who else is there?”

“You forget the men I have at my beck and call.”

The boy lifted his eyes, brow creased and lips curled into a frown. “I do not understand.”

“It’s quite simple,” Haytham answered, taking a step closer to his son. “You need men to help you protect the Homestead, and I--” He pressed a hand to his chest and forced a smirk to his lips. “--command the other half of the Order. Surely you don’t need me to explain the rest.”

“Your men would never fight for an Assassin cause.”

No, they wouldn’t. On this matter, Haytham had to agree wholeheartedly with his son, but the difference was that he already had a plan in mind. True, he’d be gambling a little here, relying entirely on his son’s fiercely loyal heart and unfailing desire to protect those he cared for, but it was because of those very things that he could not help but feel surer of this plan than many others he’d put together over the years.

“But they’ll fight for a Templar one.”

When Connor said nothing, Haytham looked down at his hand, fingers toying with the silver ring he wore. With a quiet sigh, he removed it and then grabbed the boy’s wrist, turning his palm upwards before depositing the item there.

“An Assassin takes on many guises to accomplish his goals,” he said, slowly curling Connor’s hand into a fist for him. “Think of this as one of them.”

He didn’t _want_ to help the Brotherhood, not really, but to save them was to earn his son’s unswerving aid in finding and disposing of Charles. To have the boy be a Templar--a _real_ Templar--would have filled him with an unspeakable warmth and happiness, but right now, Haytham would have to be satisfied with this lie that he himself suggested.

Pressing his hands against the boy’s arms, he pat them gently before moving away, pausing briefly to glance over his shoulder. “May the Father of Understanding guide us, hm?”


End file.
